


Two Powers in Heaven

by zuzeca



Series: The Pillars of the Temple [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Class Issues, Doctors & Physicians, Drinking Games, Drunken Shenanigans, End of the World, Epic Battles, F/M, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Medical Procedures, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Negotiations, Other, Prophetic Visions, Rituals, Sparring, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Street Racing, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3403499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The board is set, the pieces are moving. With Cybertron facing certain destruction, enemies come together and Orion Pax must take up the mantle of destiny, whether he and Megatron are prepared for it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To say that this story has been a long time coming would be like saying that Megatron has a mild preoccupation with Optimus Prime. It's honestly embarrassing to realize how long it's been since I started it. That said the blame for its debut may be placed squarely on [Reyairia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/reyairia), who upon discovering I had a massive TFP S2 AU squirreled away among my stuff, refused to stop pestering me until I got back on the horse and started posting. T^T And so you get it at last, the final installment of The Pillars of the Temple. It was originally supposed to be broken into three parts, but with the way it's developing it will probably be more than that. Timeline-wise, this continues on directly from [Omphalos](http://archiveofourown.org/works/940745). So to all of you who have been patiently waiting for this, I hope you enjoy it. Happy reading as always. :)

Ratchet killed the power to the groundbridge as Bulkhead rolled through it. Trundling to a halt, the other bot transformed and straightened wearily.

“Anything?”

Bulkhead shook his head. “Caught a few drones west of here scouting for energon, but they bolted before I could get close.”

Ratchet nodded tightly. “Well, Arcee and Bumblebee still haven’t reported in. Go rest and refuel.” He hesitated. “Mrs. Darby will be bringing the children by later today.” A small comfort, the kind he’d never quite gotten the hang of offering. Bolstering morale had never been his strong suit; he didn’t have the temperament for it, lacked Optimus’s rock-solid assurance and quiet strength.

His spark ached at the thought.

Bulkhead made a sound of acknowledgement, but as he began to tramp off towards his quarters the scanners on the main console beeped and he paused. “Picking up something?”

Ratchet frowned, moving towards the computer. “I’m not certain.” He fiddled with the console. “Seems like a ship on the long range scanners. It looks like we’re being hailed.”

“Have an identification code attached?”

“It appears to. Signature says it’s the _Skyfire_.”

Bulkhead started. “Are you certain?”

“That’s what the readings say. Do you recognize the designation?”

“Assuming he’s still using it, the _Skyfire_ was Grimlock’s ship.”

“Grimlock,” vague recognition jogged in his memory core, followed by a slow, tentative well of hope. “Do you believe he’s alone?”

“Doubt it. Far as I know, the Dynobots never disbanded the way the Wreckers did. My bet is they’re all there.”

The Dynobots, the most feared Autobot strike team at the height of the war. Exactly the kind of asset which might shift the odds in their favor… 

He turned and fixed Bulkhead with a stare. “Am I right in assuming you had some previous rapport with them?” 

“Uh, well,” Bulkhead looked sheepish. “‘Rapport’ is a stretch. Though they might remember me, there was this one time in a bar on Luna-2 near the start of war. Springer brought us on leave. Didn’t know Grimlock and his gang were there too, and then there was this drinking contest and I think I might have punched Slag in the face…”

Ratchet gestured impatiently. “And?”

“Well, the bar’s not exactly…there anymore.”

“You broke the _entire bar_?”

“What do you expect when you put two teams whose mottos are ‘Wreck and rule’ and ‘Crash and burn’ in the same space? After that the higher-ups always made sure we were never on leave at the same time.”

Ratchet sighed and rubbed a weary hand across his face. “Regardless, we are not in a position to be choosy about any potential allies. Optimus’s retrieval is paramount. And for the time being at least Arcee and I outrank Grimlock; our orders should supersede any current mission he and his team may be engaged in.”

Bulkhead gave him an odd look. “I’m going to go out on a beam here and guess that you’ve never actually met Grimlock.”

Ignoring the other bot, Ratchet opened up the comm channel and spoke. “ _Skyfire_ , this is Autobot Outpost Omega-1. Do you copy?”

A moment of silence, and then a deep voice sounded over the channel. “Copy that, Omega-1. Heard a buzz that you’ve got ‘Cons collecting on this little organic world of yours; thought we might stop in to the party.”

Bulkhead winced before leaning over him to speak into the comm. “Scrap that for the moment, _Skyfire_. Planet’s inhabited and we’re currently under deep cover. We can send you a flight path to a secure area and bridge you in from there.”

A pause. “Affirmative, Omega-1, cover’s not exactly our strong suit, but we’ll come in quiet. Though I make no promises if we get ‘Cons raining down on our heads.”

“Acknowledged, _Skyfire_ , we’ll get a bridge to you, Omega-1 out.” Leaning back, Bulkhead sighed and looked over at Ratchet. “Better send them a flight path. Maybe someplace like Antarctica.”

“I take it they’re rather noticeable?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

 

Not quite Antarctica, but Ratchet managed to set them down on the southern edge of one of the island nations, a desolate glacial sheet well outside the range of civilization. He adjusted the coordinates and switched the control feed for the groundbridge over to an auxiliary console, where it could be activated by other, smaller hands.

“Just to be clear,” Fowler said, frowning up at him from the elevated platform designed for human access. “Exactly how many of your boys do you expect in?”

“Five, Agent Fowler,” he replied. “The Dynobots are a strike team, one with a feared reputation among the Decepticons. In short, they are the first piece of good news in…far too long.”

“And you think they can help you rescue the big guy?”

“That is my hope, yes.”

Fowler paused, fixing him with an unreadable stare. “And what if, on the off chance, he…doesn’t want to be rescued?”

Rage flared in his spark. “Be careful what you imply, Agent Fowler.”

“I’m just trying to prepare for every contingency. Based on what your troops saw down there, it didn’t sound like Megatron exactly dragged Optimus off kicking and screaming.”

“Megatron must have performed some trickery.” Turning, he towered over the human. “In the very core of me, Agent Fowler, I will _never_ believe that Optimus would ever willingly become a Decepticon.”

Unmoved, Fowler met his gaze. “And what is a Decepticon?”

There were many words he could have used: evil; monstrous; hateful; bloodthirsty.

“The enemy,” he said.

 

The _Skyfire_ had already landed when they stepped through the groundbridge and out onto the frozen waste. Ice crunched beneath his feet and he couldn’t help making a face; he’d never become used to this planet’s irritating propensity for rendering water solid.

Several bots were crowded around the ship’s entrance, peering out across the glacier. They straightened, a collective focus as Ratchet and Bulkhead approached, as though they were lining them up in a scope.

Focusing his attention on the largest among them, a heavy-bodied behemoth with a foreboding frown on his face who almost doubled him in height, Ratchet offered a hand. “Greetings, Grimlock, I am Ratchet, chief medical officer to Optimus Prime. I’d like to extend a welcome to Earth to you and your team on his behalf.”

Bulkhead made a slight noise. “Ratchet, that’s Sludge.”

A less massive bot stepped forward, if it was appropriate to refer to the masked, broad-chested creature, dark unpainted plating gleaming in the reflected glow of the ice, as less anything. “I’m Grimlock.”

Struggling to recover his fumble, Ratchet redirected his hand and they shook.

Grimlock withdrew. “I admit, Ratchet, from the message Prime sent out I half-expected a different sort of welcoming party.” He glanced over at Bulkhead. “Or that Prime might come himself.”

“Circumstances have…shifted considerably since Optimus broadcast the original message,” he said. “It would be best to discuss things at a more secure location.”

Grimlock gave him an indecipherable look. “Very well.” He nodded towards two other, smaller bots, one delicate and winged, the other stocky, his shoulders bristling with an impressive array of flattened armor spikes. “Swoop, Snarl, batten down the hatches. Not sure when we’ll be back.”

“Got it.”

As the two moved to do as they were bid the bot at Grimlock’s shoulder, a solid fighter with long twin spikes which arched over his shoulders like smokestacks, who had been staring at Bulkhead for the past several moments, suddenly spoke. “I know you: Star Sector Omicron, second cycle 086, the Bent Gasket.”

Bulkhead chuckled uncertainly. “Oh yeah, that was the name. Do you know if they ever rebuilt it?”

Slag, presumably, shook his head. “Nah, I heard the owner just took the insurance credits and retired. Pity, they had a house blend that could strip your gears. Good flavor too.”

Grimlock cocked his head at Bulkhead. “The Bent Gasket? That would make you one of Springer’s, huh? How did Prime ever manage to court you away?”

“Lower pay and longer hours. Plus all the ‘Con I can slag.”

Grimlock laughed. “That sounds like Autobot employment plan alright.”

Snarl trudged up towards their little party, Swoop in his wake. “Hatches battened, Grimlock. ‘Cons get within forty clicks of her, we’ll know.”

Grimlock turned to him. “We’re all yours, chief medical officer.” There was a suspicious glint in his optics and slight sardonic edge to his tone, and something in Ratchet bristled, but he mastered the urge to snap at the insubordination.

“Fowler, bridge us back.”

 

Despite the generally comfortable size of the old missile silo, Ratchet felt a distinct sense of claustrophobia as the Dynobots crowded into the main room behind him and the bridge went dark. Though his logic circuits told him that these were allies, Autobots, their energy fields pulsed with restless, sublimated aggression and there was a discomfort in having Grimlock at his back.

Arcee rose from her position at the far wall. “Heard you picked up some company.” She offered a wary nod to his companions. “Welcome.”

Bumblebee beeped out a similar greeting in binary and Grimlock nodded in return. Swoop dipped his elaborate, pointed helm as the others stared about the silo, and Ratchet found himself suddenly aware of the bare, unsophisticated headquarters through a stranger’s eyes.

Slag jerked his head in the direction of the platform, where Fowler, Mrs. Darby and the children were standing. “Thought you said you were undercover.”

“We’re unofficial liaisons,” Fowler said. “Special Agent William Fowler, I run interference, keep the media off your backs. In return, you keep your cover up when possible and the ‘Cons from rendering any cities to rubble.”

“And the mini-models?”

Jack stepped forward. “I’m Jack, and this is Miko and Raf. We’re partners with the bots, help out on missions.” He gestured to Mrs. Darby. “And this is my mom.”

Snarl glanced doubtfully at Bulkhead, who muttered: “It’s an organic reproduction thing, don’t worry about it.”

“Speaking of which,” Miko bounced forward, eyes shining. “You guys are going to need new alt modes for cover. Maybe even partners of your own!”

Ratchet frowned. “Miko, I don’t believe it’s the best idea to spread knowledge of our race any further than absolutely necessary.” He directed his next comment to Grimlock. “Though she may have a point about the alt modes. Cybertronian vehicles will stand out far too much here.”

Grimlock made a sound of acknowledgement. “Nice thought, but we’re not really in a position to be making more than superficial changes.” There was something dark in his tone. “I don’t think you have to worry about our vehicle modes though. We don’t have any.”

Miko perked up. “Do you mean you have a different kind of alt mode? Like a jet or a submarine? Can you show us?”

Bulkhead let out a faint noise of distress. “Ah, Miko…”

Slag cast a wicked grin in Grimlock’s direction. “What do you say? Would you like to do the honors?”

Grimlock gave him a long-suffering look. “Fine, stand back a bit.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to protest, but Bulkhead was already hustling him back to where Arcee and Bumblebee stood, the latter peering forward with an open fascination which mirrored the children’s.

Grimlock planted his feet squarely, and then his body seemed to fold over and disappear, parts clanking and shifting. An enormous head rose, a long solid tail lashed and jaws gaped, revealing rows of gleaming fangs as long as Ratchet’s palm. A strident bellow shook the room.

Sludge snorted. “Always with the theatrics.”

“Whoa,” Miko breathed. “That is the coolest thing I have ever seen.”

“Hey!” said Bulkhead. “What am I, scrap metal?”

 

“Your alt modes are dead ringers for ancient organisms which used to live on this planet,” Raf held up his laptop for Grimlock’s inspection.

Ratchet hovered nearby, watching uneasily as Raf showed slide after slide of bones and reconstructions and fictional representations, absently listening as Miko whispered excitedly. “But he’s a robot T-Rex, Bulk. A _robot T-Rex!_ That’s like a zombie pirate!”

Slag joined them, peering down at the images. He laughed unpleasantly. “Well, what do ya know, looks like old One-Optic wasn’t completely glitched.”

Grimlock snorted. “Nah, just glitched _and_ unoriginal.”

“Who’s Old One-Optic?” said Jack.

Sludge and Snarl shifted with unease. “Name’s Shockwave,” said Grimlock. “Decepticon scientist, likes to experiment. He got ahold of the five of us near the end of things, just before Cybertron fell. A tweak here, an agonizing reformat there, and…” He glanced at Miko. “Robot T-Rex.”

“Perhaps I could examine you?” Ratchet said. “I might be able to reverse the reformatting, so you could change your alt modes.”

It was Swoop who answered. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. They may be odd, but these modes have served us well in battle.”

“I’ll bet,” said Miko.

Ratchet frowned. “The choice is yours, of course, but I’m afraid that I must insist that you remain concealed if you do retain them. Our position at present is quite precarious.”

“And that ‘precarious’ position doesn’t happen to have anything to do with the fact that Optimus hasn’t made an appearance, does it?” 

“Very well, you’ve made your point. Optimus is not currently with us.”

“I’m shocked.”

Ratchet glared at him. “As far as we can determine, he is being held hostage aboard the Decepticon warship. He has been there for over a decacycle.”

“Now _that_ is surprising.” Grimlock straightened. “I’ve never known the ‘Cons to be able to keep Prime anywhere he didn’t want to be for more than a cycle or two.”

“While our information is far from complete, my current theory is that Optimus is no longer himself. Just prior to his capture we were forced to ally with the Decepticons in order to combat the threat of Unicron, who was awakened by an anomalous planetary alignment. To defeat him, Optimus surrendered the Matrix. It is my belief that when he did so, Optimus must have reverted to his pre-Prime state: the data archivist Orion Pax.”

“Orion? Did he go with them willingly?”

Ratchet barely bit back a retort. “Under deceit and coercion, perhaps. Megatron was there; he must have spun some lie to lure Orion away.”

Grimlock snorted. “If Orion truly has returned, I doubt he had to lie very hard.”

“Have care where you sling accusations of desertion, Dynobot. I’ve read some of your team’s files.”

Grimlock laughed. “We were never deserters, medic. We’re just a bit more…liberal about interpreting orders.” He glanced meaningfully at Bulkhead. “But I’m not making accusations. Orion and Megatron were very close. If you awoke on a strange world, with no memory of how you came to be there, wouldn’t you reach for the first familiar face?”

“That is exactly my concern. Megatron is ruthless and nothing like the gladiator Orion once knew. I fear that if Orion begins to question the current state of affairs Megatron will destroy him.”

Grimlock reflected for a moment. “It’s been awhile since I saw him last, but I’ve known Megatron for a very long time and he’s not really changed all that much. If he’d wanted to kill him, Orion would already be dead, and you would have been left with the body. Megatron’s always been one for grand gestures and as a strategy to break morale, it’s flawless.” Grimlock shook his head. “No, this is something personal. Megatron wants Orion for his own reasons.”

“For revenge?”

Grimlock looked amused. “Never one for gossip, were you, doctor?”

Protective rage blazed in him. “I had hoped that even the scum of the Kaon pits would have more honor than to—!” He broke off. “Mrs. Darby, Agent Fowler, please take the children out of here.”

“Wait,” said Raf, voice high with distress. “Don’t send us out. We get it. We watch the news.” He turned to Grimlock. “Are you saying that Optimus is being…hurt while he’s there? Like that?”

Grimlock hesitated. “I suppose we can’t rule it out, but rape has never really been Megatron’s style. No, what your high-strung medic is avoiding saying is that Megatron and Orion were lovers before the war started.”

“Lovers?” Miko boggled at Ratchet. “You said they were friends!”

“They were very discreet,” Grimlock said. “I doubt there were more than a handful of bots who knew. But Megatron and I shared an adjoining wall at the barracks for a while. He knew it too, the glitch-headed slagger. Three other perfectly serviceable walls and they always used that one.” He glanced at Ratchet. “Not much stayed secret between the ‘scum of the Kaon pits’.”

Ratchet growled. “What’s your point?”

“No point to be made, I suppose. Everything’s so far gone now we’re all mixed together, scum and all. But I can’t help but wonder if you ever told the organics the basis of our little war.”

“Ratchet explained it to us,” Jack said. “About the caste system and Megatron’s revolution, and how it became corrupted. It was Optimus who stepped up to stop Megatron when he tried to destroy your homeworld.”

“Very tidy explanation. Prime the holy soldier and his righteous group of followers battling against the evil Decepticons. Except the caste system mediated Cybertronian society more than I think you realize. Take it from someone who saw it from the ground floor; it was no accident that most of the Decepticons were from the very lowest castes, or that most of the Autobots were from the middle castes. Intelligence, medicine.” He nodded towards Arcee and Ratchet in turn. “Or data archival. And it was no accident that those of us who were miners or laborers weren’t often placed with the main troops, but instead in specialized units like the Wreckers.”

Grimlock shook his head. “Megatron didn’t nab followers with false promises and pretty words. There was status to be won, if you had the strength to grab it. And you didn’t have to deal with mid-caste bots who’d never had to kill for their daily ration talking about ‘Kaon scum’.”

“Then why did you never join him?” Ratchet bit out.

“I thought about it,” Grimlock said. “But in the end I couldn’t stand Megatron, and I had more faith that Optimus would be able to end the war more quickly.” He shrugged. “Shows how much I know, I guess. But I’ve never had any quarrel with the Decepticons.”

“Even Shockwave?”

“Oh, I’d gladly rip Shockwave’s spark out and shove it up his exhaust pipe, but that’s a personal grudge. I’ve got no issue with him as a Decepticon. I’ve got too much energon on my hands to be pointing fingers.”

“Enough,” Arcee said. “It’s pointless to argue these things now. Our priority is still Optimus’s retrieval and restoration.”

“One’s probably harder than the other, if the Matrix is offline.” Grimlock said.

“Optimus left us with the Key to Vector Sigma.”

“Good start, do you have a way to get to Vector Sigma?”

“We don’t have a space bridge at this time,” said Ratchet. “The Decepticons previously possessed a functional bridge, but we sabotaged it.”

“As you do. Well, I suppose we could concentrate on retrieving Optimus first, worry about jogging his memories later.”

“And do what in the meantime, hold him hostage? He may have no recollection of any of us.”

“If he remembers Megatron, he should at least remember me. If not, you’re a doctor. Stuff him in stasis until we can get things hammered out.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Wait a second,” Jack spoke up. “If the Decepticons had one space bridge, what’s to say they aren’t building another? Couldn’t we commandeer theirs?”

Grimlock laughed. “I like the way you think.”

Ratchet hesitated. “It would be extremely dangerous and we don’t currently have intelligence on any potential building sites, but we may have no other choice. I don’t know of any other method by which Optimus’s memories could be restored.”

Half to himself, he began to ponder. “If we could somehow obtain the information, and if we could somehow get you to Cybertron…This will take some planning.” He frowned. “And we might need a distraction.”

“Don’t you worry, chief medical officer,” Grimlock gestured to his team. “Distractions are our specialty.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made, lines of communication are opened, and much snarking occurs all around. I'm over the moon that people are enjoying this, as this AU is quite near and dear to my heart. Happy reading. :)

“I forbid it,” Megatron snarled. Rising, he stalked across the room. “You are not giving Decepticon resources to a pack of Autobots!”

Orion remained seated, optics hard and unyielding. “I’ve seen the inventories. You’re in possession of enough energon to power the space bridge and keep everyone fueled for the foreseeable future more than three times over. Fuel for four Autobots will hardly make a dent.”

“Nine Autobots, Grimlock and his team have joined them.”

Orion started. “Grimlock became an Autobot?”

“To my eternal annoyance, he did.”

“Regardless, nine or four, it makes no difference. It’s an inconsequential amount of fuel, but as a gesture of goodwill, it’s invaluable.”

“And why do we require such a gesture? We are going to show them that their precious leader is unharmed, are we not?”

“I fear that my presence may not carry sufficient weight to convince them.” Orion’s optics flicked briefly in the direction of his shoulder guards. “The information Soundwave has provided me suggests that the Autobots’ energon reserves are quite low, and any new members will stretch their resources even further. I am hoping they may be desperate enough to be willing to listen.”

“How very ruthless of you.”

“I am merely being pragmatic. It will be hard enough to convince them of our benevolent intentions. If I were truly ruthless I would pretend to have regained my memories and simply order them to do what we required.”

“Diabolical, I like it.”

“Yet impractical as well. Were I to make a single slip, I might very well find myself in a dangerous situation. And subterfuge is not the way towards any kind of lasting peace.” Orion spread his hands in a pleading gesture. “You said you would work with me. That requires a certain amount of compromise.”

Though it galled him, he had to admit that what Orion asked was but a small thing. The scouts had mapped plenty of yet-untapped energon deposits, the handful of cubes required to fuel the Autobots was nothing.

Scowling, Megatron turned away. “Fine, done. Would you like to ask for access to the ship’s main computer while you’re at it?”

“Well, actually…”

“What am I thinking? Of course you would.”

“Unless I can contact the Autobots through one of the auxiliary computers?”

Megatron crushed the urge to sigh.

 

“I absolutely forbid it,” June Darby said. “I don’t care what mystical piece of alien technology Optimus left you; you are not traipsing half way across the galaxy!”

“But Mom—”

“No buts, Jack.”

“Mrs. Darby,” Ratchet said. “I would be the last one to suggest Jack embark on such a dangerous endeavor, but Optimus clearly thought Jack capable of carrying out this mission if what he feared came to pass.” He paused, “And from a purely pragmatic standpoint, I fear that without Optimus, we will be unable to hold off the Decepticons, even with the assistance of your military.”

“Then send someone else,” June said. “A soldier, not a child!”

“Sometimes in war, it is the fate of children to become soldiers,” Ratchet said. He felt suddenly quite old and sad. Beside him, Bumblebee shifted restlessly. “And I’m afraid that the Key has imprinted itself with Jack’s biosignature. He is the only one capable of using it to activate Vector Sigma.”

“Mom,” Jack said gently. “Optimus risked his life to save all of us. If I can do anything to bring him back, I have to do it.”

June hunched and turned away, but Ratchet could see her beginning to crack, the edges of surrender. “I just…”

“June,” Arcee knelt beside them. “Jack won’t be alone. I swear to you, I won’t let anything happen to him.”

June was silent for a long time before she finally spoke, her voice thick. “When I used to think about you leaving, I always thought it would be for college.”

“Mom…” Jack touched her shoulder and she covered his hand with her own, squeezing tight.

“This all may very well be nothing more than speculation,” said Ratchet. “We still currently possess no information on the spacebridge’s location and—”

A loud chirp from the console interrupted him. Bumblebee gave a startled, inquiring whistle.

Ratchet frowned. “I’m not certain.” Moving towards the computer, he flicked the main screen into view.

His vents locked up, spark stuttering. “Impossible.”

Arcee straightened. “What’s going on?”

“We’re being hailed.”

“By whom?”

“By the _Nemesis_.”

 

They stood frozen for a long time as the console squawked insistently, utterly unable to move.

Grimlock recovered first. “Don’t you think you should answer it?”

“Don’t,” Arcee said. “They could have a new tracking program, might be trying to get a bead on our location again.”

“Our firewalls should be strong enough to withstand it,” Ratchet said, but he found himself glancing at the others, trying to gauge their opinions.

“Wouldn’t it be better to find out what they want?” Bulkhead said slowly. “Maybe Megatron decided to ransom Prime?”

“Since when has Megatron ever ransomed anyone?” Arcee said. “I don’t like it.”

“But like Ratchet said,” said Jack. “We don’t have enough information to make a move yet. This might be our opportunity to glean some.”

Spark shifting uneasily, Ratchet said. “I’m going to answer them. Arcee, you can keep an optic on the firewalls. If it looks like we’re in danger of a breach, we cut communication.”

Arcee gave him an unhappy look, but complied, moving to join him at the console. “Fine, but I want it noted that I think this is a fragging stupid idea.”

“There is still a formal complaint system in place, last I knew of,” he replied. “You may file one at your leisure.” Reaching forward, he engaged the communication link. “Megatron.”

There was a long silence on the other end, before a voice that he’d begun to fear he’d never hear again answered. “Ratchet?”

He gripped the edge of the console, swaying. “Optimus?”

Optimus’s voice was unusually hesitant. “Not…exactly.”

“Orion Pax.”

“Yes, though Alpha Trion has explained to me why you would know me by another name.”

He frowned. Alpha Trion of the Hall of Records? How would Orion have come into contact with him again? “I see.”

“Circumstances have changed over the last decacycle,” Orion said, his voice growing more confident. “The Decepticons have agreed to open up negotiations.”

Out of the corner of his optic he saw Arcee shoot him a disbelieving look. “And do you have any proof of this agreement? Any reason we should believe you?”

“Only this,” Orion rattled off a set of coordinates. “You will find energon there, processed and cubed, enough for your team as well as Grimlock’s. Once you have received it, you can contact us once again, to arrange a meeting and begin negotiations.”

Alarm pricked him at the use of the pronoun _us_. “And are you speaking on behalf of the Decepticons then?”

A pause and he knew Orion had caught the oblique accusation. “For the moment, yes.”

Pain lanced through him, a miasma of fear and hopelessness. “I see.”

Orion gave a quiet sigh. “All will be explained in time, Ratchet, but suffice to say that there is a gathering threat which will require all our combined strength.” He paused. “I hope that we may be able to put aside our differences.”

He offlined his optics. “Is Megatron with you?”

“Would you expect anything less, medic?”

“I don’t know what you have told Orion to convince him to join you, but if you—” He cut himself off, biting back the wave of emotion which threatened to swamp him. “For Optimus’s sake, we will see how long a Decepticon can keep his word.”

“You should allow Grimlock to make your threats, Ratchet.” The use of his designation startled him; he supposed that Megatron might have made note of it after being punched through a wall. “He is far more practiced at it.”

Grimlock barked out a laugh. “You know better than that, Megatron. I don’t make threats; I make promises.”

Megatron chuckled. “So you say.”

“We will contact you by the end of the next solar cycle,” Ratchet said. “Provided the energon is in the described location, and we are able to retrieve it unmolested.”

“That is acceptable,” Orion replied, his tone stiff and formal and something in Ratchet’s core ached.

Ratchet cut the feed and leaned against the console, trying not to shake.

“Can we risk it?” said Bulkhead.

“I don’t know,” Ratchet said. “It could very well be a trap.”

Grimlock stepped up beside him and though his energy field was as discomfiting as ever, edged with aggression and battle lust, his optics were kind. “Then we’ll go.”

“I’m not certain that’s a good idea.”

“I know we haven’t given much indication that we’re at all reliable,” he said. “And I appreciate the concern, but frankly?” He gestured at the other members of his team. “We took down Bruticus at the end of a decavorn long campaign. Unless Megatron has a spare combiner team up his exhaust pipe, trap or no, this is going to be oil cake in comparison.”

Ratchet hesitated, but they both knew there was very little he could do to stop Grimlock if he was inclined to go. Further, the fact that he even offered them the courtesy of asking permission indicated a sense of loyalty that, despite Ratchet’s unease with the situation, was comforting. “Very well. But,” he said, thrusting a finger in Grimlock’s face. “We bridge you in, and if there is any, _any_ indication that you might not be alone, we bridge you back, no questions asked.”

Grimlock gave him a small, amused salute. “Promise, chief medical officer.”

 

The pickup site was deep in the desert, many clicks from civilization. Ratchet hovered near the groundbridge controls, suppressing the urge to fidget as the bridge sprang to life and the Dynobots passed back into the base.

“Twenty seven cubes all told,” said Grimlock, setting down his load. “All in the described place and with no one around as far as our scanners could tell.”

Ratchet cycled his vents in relief. “I want everyone to fully fuel up tonight, and anyone who isn’t getting a clean self-diagnostic, and I do mean _immaculate_ , come see me for repairs or a tune up. If we’re going to walk into the enemy’s lair, we may as well do so in top condition.”

Turning back to the console, he pinged the _Nemesis_.

“Ratchet?” Orion’s rapid response indicated he must have been waiting for them. “Were you able to retrieve the energon?”

“It was as you said,” he replied. “You mentioned arranging a meeting?”

“Of course, though I am unsure of where you would prefer to meet. It might take some time, and while we could of course meet on the planet we are currently orbiting, the ship does have perhaps more comfortable facilities?”

He almost refused. Despite what he’d said about walking into the enemy’s lair, he had no intention of bringing his team into such a dangerous situation. But then he paused, thinking. While it was true they’d be in a vulnerable position, it was equally precarious for Megatron to bring them aboard, where they’d have access to all manner of delicate equipment and explosives. And then there were the Dynobots to consider.

“You turn off the shields,” he said, adamant. “And the scrambler, so we may bridge out at any time.”

“That can be arranged.” Orion sounded a bit weary; Ratchet could just imagine how well the conversation conveying this demand would go.

“Send us the coordinates, and we’ll be in four megacycles from now.”

“Very well.”

Shutting off the comm, he turned to his team.

“Alright then, who wants to go first?”

There was a telling silence.

 

It was strange, the sensation of a full tank after so long at less than capacity, an almost overcharged tingle that produced an edge of giddiness in him. Around Ratchet, the others checked and rechecked their weapons with a nervous energy that spoke of a similar condition.

Ratchet didn’t know if they were heading into actual negotiations or only a doomed last stand, but he found himself gripped with certainty regardless, that this was the beginning of the end.

A ping from the console and a set of coordinates flashed across the screen.

He nodded to Fowler, who booted up the groundbridge. Though it was tempting to leave a soldier or two in reserve he’d eventually made the call to send everyone, on the chance that they might have to fight their way out.

The bridge flared to life and he stepped through it, the energy fields of the others a solid and secure wall at his back.

The light faded and resolved itself into the bridge of the _Nemesis_ , which appeared to have been cleared of Eradicons. His gaze zeroed in on the small group of bots waiting for them. Megatron loomed, Soundwave lingering in his monstrous shadow, but it was the bot at Megatron’s shoulder that caught Ratchet’s eye.

The loss of the Matrix hadn’t changed Orion’s physical structure, but even as Ratchet’s spark leapt in joyful recognition his processor was scanning over Orion, picking up endless minute differences, not only the sinister gleam of his new faction brands, but his posture, his expression.

Despite his alert stance and the edge of weariness that surrounded him, Orion looked so _young_. 

Orion nodded to them. “Ratchet, everyone, welcome.”

His words, gentle and even, blunted the sharpest edge of the tension, though Ratchet waited to acknowledge them. Turning to Arcee, he said in a low voice: “Check the shields and confirm communication with Agent Fowler.”

He waited, letting the endless, agonizing moments tick by until at last she nodded tersely. Relaxing the slightest bit, he replied. “Thank you, Orion.” Switching his attention to the other bots he said coldly. “Megatron.”

Megatron nodded in acknowledgement. “Medic.” Glancing beyond Ratchet’s shoulder, he bared his fangs in a frigid grin. “Grimlock.”

Grimlock snorted. “Charmed.” He focused on Orion. “Orion, it is good to see you again.”

Orion smiled, a small, sweet expression that looked out of place on Optimus’s face. “Likewise.”

“The bloodthirsty oaf hasn’t been giving you too much trouble, has he?” Grimlock cocked his head with interest. “Because I seem to remember promising to strip his diodes if he broke your spark.”

Megatron scowled. “As I recall, you threatened to remove _both_ our vocal processors should we ever utilize your wall again. A threat which you then bizarrely followed up with a drunken proposition for a three-way.”

“Ah well, memory banks get a bit fuzzy with the high grade. Did we ever?”

Megatron’s scowl deepened. “No, thank the Allspark.”

“More’s the pity,” Orion murmured and Megatron shot him an affronted look. Hiding a smile, he addressed Ratchet. “The conference room on deck two has been prepared. If you would?”

“After you.”

Conceding to the mistrustful gesture with grace, Orion glanced at Megatron, who favored Ratchet with a superior look before turning and heading into the depths of the ship, Orion at his side and Soundwave trailing. Ratchet watched them go: the bot who had destroyed his homeworld, the bot who had been his Prime. And he followed.

He prayed that he was not making a fatal mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enemies come face-to-face and some unpleasant truths are raised. ~~Also there's some porn in here have fun with that. XD~~ Glad as always to see that people are enjoying this and I hope it lives up to expectations! :3 Happy reading everyone.

_“Got a new assignment for you, Trencher.”_ Chip’s communications always had this disgustingly cheerful edge to them.

_“What, did Dozer let a drill fall on him again?”_

_“Not so much. The bigwigs are all having some secret negotiation shindig up on deck two. Need you to go get a cube or two and serve ‘em up a round.”_

_“Do I look like a fragging service bot?”_

_“Of course not.”_ Chip’s voice gentled and Trencher huffed in deflated affront. _“I wouldn’t ask usually, but Sandblaster and Dozer are both out at Mine Theta and I don’t want to send anybody with integrated weaponry. Primus knows they’ve got enough guns between them up there._

_“Still don’t see how this is my problem.”_

_“How does a cycle of leave starting after this offshift cycle sound?”_

Trencher started to tell Chip exactly where he could shove his leave, but then he paused, recalculating. Drop-Tank had mentioned he had a leave cycle coming up…

_You slagging, manipulative glitch._

_“Fine,”_ he grumbled. _“But I want it on the fragging books that you owe me one.”_

He could hear Chip’s barely stifled amusement, _“Of course.”_

_“Whatever.”_

_“And be sure to give them something low-charge, will you? Last thing we need is some trigger-happy Autobot blowing a hole in the ceiling.”_

Trencher made an extremely filthy and utterly superfluous gesture to the empty hallway.

 

Balancing an unwieldy stack of cubes and cups, Trencher activated the conference room doors and slunk into a far corner, trying to feign ignorance as several bots glanced in his direction. Setting down his burden on a back counter, he ran a brief headcount, set out the cups and began to decant the energon.

“And we’re just supposed to take your word that Liege Maximo is on his way?” The big, green bruiser, _Bulkhead_ , Trencher remembered. The one who’d scrapped Tierod and Muffler an orn ago. “That you actually spoke to Alpha Trion? Scrap, can we even take his word?”

“Alpha Trion is a trustworthy mech,” said Orion. “And I do not believe he would speak falsehoods, not about something this important.”

“Besides,” Megatron said, as Trencher slipped up beside his seat and slid a cup of energon within reach of his hand. “Do you really think we would bother with such an elaborate, fantastical ruse? There are simpler, more effective traps we could have constructed.” He took his cup and nodded to Trencher. 

“Perhaps,” said Arcee, who was responsible for snuffing out Rodcap and Heatshield, last Trencher could recall. He kept his gaze lowered as he set down her cup. She shot Megatron a calculating look. “But you do still need the Key to Vector Sigma.”

“You forget, Autobot, _I_ have no need for the Key. In fact, if I recall, _you_ need access to my spacebridge to revive your precious Prime.”

Orion shifted briefly and Trencher paused at his side, concern warring with the desire to finish his task as quickly as possible and scram. Orion must have felt the flicker of his energy field, because he caught his gaze and smiled, the expression encouraging if a bit tight.

Reluctantly, Trencher moved on, doling out energon to the Dynobots. His processor couldn’t encompass the magnitude of _their_ kill count, but Grimlock only took the cup from him with a quiet thank you. Unnerved by the polite gesture, he ducked his head and scooted towards the end of the table, the final cup clutched in his hand.

“And are you willing to grant us access, Megatron?”

He froze, cup tumbling from his nerveless fingers and clanging against the floor. Energon splashed.

 _“Where is Megatron?”_

He knew that voice, had heard it over and over during bad memory purges, crooning to him, sickly sweet, accompanied by burning pain and terror and darkness until he woke gasping and clawing at his own plating.

_“I won’t ask you a second time.”_

“Trencher?”

He jerked as though he’d been shot. Orion had half-risen from his seat and was watching him with concern. Around the table, every set of optics was fixed on him. Arcee and Bumblebee had their weapons drawn.

He forced his frozen vocalizer into action. “Sorry, I’ll get something to clean it up.”

He turned and fled.

“Trencher!”

Fuel pump pounding, he ran, dodging around a corner and stumbled, pressing himself tight to the wall as he fought the urge to purge his tanks. Shaking, he fumbled to engage his commlink in blind instinct.

 _“Trencher?”_ Drop-Tank sounded startled. _“I’m out on patrol, what’s going on?”_

Patrol, of course, stupid, stupid, not using his fragging processor, _“Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you. I forgot. It’s nothing, nothing important.”_

Drop-Tank’s voice thickened with worry, _“Trencher, you’ve never forgotten when I’m supposed to be out. What happened? Are you alright?_

_“I’m fine, no problems. I just—it’s really nothing.”_

_“I’m coming back.”_

_“No, please don’t.”_

_“I’ll be there in ten clicks.”_

_“Don’t—”_ But the commlink cut off, the slagger, probably so he could pretend he hadn’t heard Trencher telling him to turn back. At least Drop-Tank didn’t try the fake static trick on him like Dozer always did. The thought was so strangely incongruent that he had to bite back laughter, or maybe it was a scream of horror.

“Trencher?”

He flinched as Orion’s shadow fell across him. The bot knelt, bringing himself down to Trencher’s level and his hands were surprisingly gentle as he reached for him. “Are you alright?”

“The meeting—”

“We are taking a short break,” Orion soothed, touching his shoulder guard and letting his energy field brush and buoy against Trencher’s. “Are you injured?”

“I can be the judge of that.”

Trencher locked up, energy field blazing with terror so sharp that it rocked Orion back on his heels. Pinned against the wall, he could only stare as the Autobot medic shoved his way in next to Orion and crouched, groaning as his struts creaked. “With the current medical personnel on this ship I wouldn’t be surprised if half the crew is malfunctioning.”

Squinting down at him, Ratchet made an exasperated sound. “Well, there’s an immediate problem off the bat, looks like some brute took an arc welder to him and melted half his—”

He knew the exact moment the medic realized, the moment his optics widened and he broke off, staring at Trencher in terrible recognition.

_“Melted? Now there’s a concept.”_

Ripping himself away from Orion’s hand, he dove under the large bot’s arm and tore down the hallway, the only thought in his processor to run, run, run.

_No weapons, couldn’t fight him off._

_Weakling._

_Oh Primus, it hurts, can’t see._

_Lousy Decepticon, can’t even hold up against an old medic._

_Told him everything._

_He’s gonna kill me._

_Don’t want to die._

Someone grabbed him and he fought, kicking, scratching and tearing at plating with his claws. _No, no, no!_

“Trencher!”

Shocked into immobility, he stared up at the mech who’d caught him. He’d nicked Drop-Tank in his fury and energon dripped from his face, but he only made a low, sorrowful sound and pulled Trencher close, his energy field expanding around them both, loving and warm.

Trencher shuddered and clung on. 

 

Ratchet stared after the fleeing Eradicon, aghast. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that the drone he’d injured under the influence of the Synth-En would be here, certainly not that he’d be so blatantly confronted by evidence of what he’d done, by his…

His processor shied away from the word: victim.

_This is nonsense, he is an enemy. And I…was not in my right mind._

But he _was_ a non-combatant. He hadn’t even possessed any weapons, could only claw at Ratchet’s foot and scream as he—

He realized Orion was looking at him, a guarded expression on his face. And even though he wasn’t Optimus any longer, that probing, piercing stare still felt like an accusation.

“What?” he snapped.

“He was afraid of you.”

“What of it? If you must know, we’ve killed many Eradicons trying to survive this war.”

Orion shook his head. “No, he wasn’t afraid of the Autobots. He only responded as he did when he saw you.”

His energy field flared in defensive reaction. “It doesn’t matter. I am not going to submit to an interrogation by someone who hasn’t even seen a battle.”

It was a low blow and Orion flinched, but held steady. “Fair enough, though you are incorrect in your assumption.”

“Soundwave’s archive files, which I’m sure must be impressive, nonetheless do not replace an eon of battlefield experience. Do his files include the sensory data? The smell of energon and soot? The way Bumblebee’s screams cut off when Megatron ripped out his vocalizer?”

Orion’s mouth tightened. “Soundwave has given me numerical data and video files. But I was not referring to the information I received from him, but rather my personal investigations in the energon mines and gladiatorial rings in Kaon and Iacon.”

“Gladiatorial combat? You think that stage fights can compare to true warfare?”

“Killing is still killing. At least your soldiers fight by choice. I have seen mechs enslaved and forced to fight and kill for the right to live, torn apart, burned and bled out. Bodies heaped on bodies.”

“So what, Orion, you’re going to return to the role of Megatron’s disciple, his lapdog? You’re a fool if you think that anything just in his revolution remains, if it ever existed in the first place.”

“The revolution has no meaning now, nor does the war, not with so many of us gone. I only hope to salvage what is left, to rebuild.”

Something dark and ugly coiled in him and he spat. “How, by bowing to Megatron’s whims? I’m sure that will go over well, when we are all slaves or deactivated he can burn _this_ planet to ash as well.”

Orion shuttered his optics in weariness. “What is it that you want from me?”

“End it!” His own vehemence shocked him, but he couldn’t hold back the tide of emotion. “End the Decepticons, end Megatron because if you do not it will _never_ end. It is what must be done. It is what Optimus would have done!”

Orion went rigid, his face closing off, making him look, by some cruel irony, more like Optimus than Ratchet had yet seen him. He was silent for a long time.

“Then perhaps,” he said, voice low and even. “It is fortunate that I am no longer Optimus Prime.” 

 

Megatron frowned into his cup of energon, the dregs sloshing as he turned it. Across the table the Dynobots were murmuring idly amongst themselves while the remaining Autobots sat in stony silence. Only Soundwave, at his right, seemed serene, his energy field a soothing, even hum.

He was about to rise from the table and retrieve Orion when the doors slid open and the bot in question passed through them, followed closely by Ratchet. The medic had a thunderous expression on his face.

Orion’s face on the other hand, was suspiciously blank. He appeared poised, but as Megatron watched him take his seat and reach for his half-full cup of energon he could see a fine trembling in Orion’s fingers. It provoked a strange unease in him.

“Now,” said Orion, sounding entirely too weary for having merely taken a jaunt after a wayward Eradicon. _Trencher, was it? The miner with the scarred face._ “Where were we?”

“About to conclude our negotiations this cycle,” he said. Every bot at the table turned to look at him. “It has grown late and I doubt anything productive will result from continuing.”

At first Orion seemed about to protest, but then he capitulated. “Perhaps you are right. It would be better to come at this with clear processors. There are empty cabins, if you would like some time to recharge.” His last statement, though addressed to the Autobots, had a questioning note to it.

He gave Ratchet an unpleasant smile. “Of course. You are welcome to stay the night.”

For a moment, the medic looked as if he would refuse, but then a mulish expression spread across his face. “How can we turn down such a generous offer?”

Arcee shot Ratchet an incredulous look, but Megatron was already on his comm. _“Breakdown.”_

_“Yes, Lord Megatron?”_

_“I want you to find accommodations for our guests for this offshift cycle.”_

_“…Yes, Lord Megatron.”_

He bared his fangs at Ratchet. “Your guide will be along shortly.”

Despite his reluctant tone, it only took Breakdown five clicks to make it to the conference room. “Lord Megatron,” he said, inclining his head before turning his attention to the Autobots. “Anyone order room service?”

“You have got to be kidding me,” said Bulkhead.

“Breakdown,” Megatron said, ignoring both remarks. “Take our guests to the commissary if it is required and then escort them to some spare berths.”

Breakdown frowned, but gestured to the group. “Well, come on then.”

For several klicks no one moved, but then Bulkhead heaved himself up from the table. “Fine, but I’m not rooming with _you_.”

Breakdown snorted. “Wouldn’t dream of it. We haven’t got a spare berth anyway.”

Bulkhead shot him a sour look.

Slowly the Autobots rose from their places and followed Breakdown out in the ship, leaving only Orion and Soundwave, who immediately slipped out behind them at Megatron’s look. The doors slid shut.

Orion stood. “Perhaps we should retire as well?”

He made an absent sound of assent and followed the mech from the room. Offshift cycle was advanced, the halls deserted and dark. Orion palmed the doors of their quarters open and made for the berth. His plating clanked and groaned as he sat, struts sagging with weariness. Megatron lingered near the door, watching.

Suspicion pricked him. “What did the medic say?”

“Nothing important,” Orion replied, his voice subdued. “Or unexpected.”

 _As usual, Orion, you are a poor liar._ With great effort, he pushed down his frustration at the evasion and sat. Reaching out, he trailed his claws across Orion’s forearm guard, trying to keep the touch inviting rather than demanding.

He half-expected to be refused, but Orion surged up at speed, clutching at his plating with blunt fingers. Startled, he overbalanced as all the mass of Optimus Prime threw itself unexpectedly atop him and they tipped over, tumbling back across the berth. Orion pressed close, interface hatch snapping open. “Please…”

Recovering from the discomfiture of being so suddenly flipped, he pushed back, reining in his eager spike as Orion ground down, trying to take him in. “No.”

“Please, I need—”

“No. You will wait.” Reaching down, he probed at the rim of Orion’s valve and found it dry. Orion moaned as he traced the edges, toying with sensor nodes, but couldn’t hold back a wince as he slid a finger inside.

_You think I cannot see what you are doing, Orion? You think I will allow you to use me in this manner?_

Exerting himself, he gripped Orion by the waist and dragged him upwards to straddle his chest. He noted with a bit of resigned amusement that it took a great deal more strength than the last time he had performed this maneuver. Orion didn’t seem to notice though and only gasped and clawed at the wall behind them as Megatron bent his helm and licked.

He pressed deeper, stroking against sensor nodes until lubricant gushed forth, tasting sparks as charge leapt through conductive fluid. Above him, Orion whimpered.

Satisfaction curled in him and he shifted his grip to push one clawed digit inside Orion’s valve, twisting as he felt for nodes on the anterior wall and pressed up.

Orion cried out, his body jerking, trying to bend double as his valve contracted tight and lubricant gushed over Megatron’s hand. His spike pressurized in a rush and Megatron licked briefly at the shape of it, provoking another moan, before maneuvering Orion down into his lap.

Orion let out a sharp, relieved sob as he sank down, valve clenching and fluttering around him. Megatron slid his hands from his waist, settling them on his legs as Orion began to rock against him.

Despite the tight coil of his own desire, he found himself observing Orion with detachment as he thrust onto his spike with a desperation Megatron hadn’t witnessed since their encounter by the Rust Sea. Fresh from a battle where they’d both lost ten thousand mechs apiece, Optimus, silent and raging and grief-stricken, had tracked Megatron down and tried and tried to kill him. But his anger had burnt itself out and Megatron had subdued him, brought him to his knees and overloaded him until the ruddy sand ran fluorescent with lubricant and energon.

Of course, he realized, with a touch of melancholy, Orion would have no memory of that.

For the first time since his friend-enemy-lover had looked up at him and spoken the name that bound him to the pits of Kaon, Megatron found himself aware of how much of their history had been erased with Orion’s memories.

How much of _them_ had been erased.

He found his gaze drawn to Orion’s spike. Simple and unadorned with the modifications that their kind often favored, it was still aesthetically pleasing, its plating smooth, its seams tight. Proportional, not excessive, and though he’d rarely had the opportunity to experience it, when pushed to the right point, Prime knew how to wield it.

His valve clenched pleasantly at the thought and he bucked up into Orion, who let out a choked sound and ground down, clinging tight to Megatron as he overloaded. He watched Orion ride out the tremors before rolling them. Hiking up one of Orion’s legs, he thrust in, short and sharp, chasing his own overload. Shuddering, he sank down atop Orion and rested, listening to the clank of metal cooling, the air sharp with ozone. Orion’s optics were dark, offline.

“I do not know if I can do this.”

He didn’t have it in him to speak encouraging lies, so he merely listened.

“I do not know if I can willingly take up the Matrix again, go back to being Prime, to their expectations, to the killing.” Orion’s voice was tight with grief. “I do not know if I can go back to you hating me—”

“You are wrong.”

Orion’s optics lit, startled. “What?”

“You have frustrated and angered me as no one else ever has. You have stabbed me and shot me. You have cost me limbs and _armies_. But I do not hate you.” He met Orion’s optics squarely. “I have never hated you.”

He surprised himself by meaning it.

Orion offlined his optics. “I wish I could say the same. But I can no longer remember.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could be roughly and irreverently titled "In Which the Autobots Run Amok on the Nemesis". This goes about as well as you might imagine. XD And apparently posting this has been good for me since after more than a year stalled out on it, *gasp* words are beginning to flow once more. /o/ It's still sitting secondary to Samizdat, but it's very nice indeed to have the muse back for this story. Happy reading as always and thank you for your continued support and enthusiasm. :3
> 
> Also, bizarrely, I just realized that this is the third fic of mine to warrant the tag for Eye Surgery. o.O Considering some of the other tags I've used in my fandom career though, I suppose it could be worse. XD

“Last five rooms at the end of this hall are empty,” Breakdown said. “Mess is through there,” he indicated a set of double doors to their left. He glanced at Bulkhead. “A drink for old time’s sake?” His tone was sarcastic, but his energy field pulsed with restless, mixed emotions.

Bulkhead frowned, but looked to Ratchet for affirmation. He’d be slagged before he left his teammates alone in a Decepticon death trap.

“Do as you please,” Ratchet said, voice sharp with irritation. “I’m going to recharge.”

“Likewise,” said Grimlock and Bumblebee beeped agreement.

“I could use a drink,” said Arcee, the touch of her energy field wary and supportive, offering backup.

“Why not?” he said.

As the others peeled off they followed Breakdown through the doors. A handful of Eradicons were scattered about the mess. Optic visors flashed as a few drones cautiously glanced their way.

“Officer Breakdown!”

Breakdown smiled in a way Bulkhead hadn’t seen for eons. “Sandblaster.”

A small mining drone hurried up to them, twin visors bright. “Who are your friends?”

Bulkhead snorted at the use of the word, but Breakdown indicated them each in turn. “Arcee, Autobot soldier, and Bulkhead, professional pain in my exhaust pipe.” He nodded towards the energon dispenser on the far wall. “Would you mind getting us a round?”

“No problem,” Sandblaster hurried off and Breakdown gestured them to a nearby table.

The little drone returned, a tray of full cups in his arms. “So what’s the news?” he said, sliding in next to Breakdown. “A ceasefire?”

Arcee frowned. “Perhaps, if your side can keep the caps on your blasters.”

“Funny coming from you,” said a voice from the other end of the table, where a jet-model Eradicon sat nursing a cup of high-grade. Lifting his arm, he indicated a prominent welding scar on the underside. “Pretty sure this one’s yours.”

“Traction, please,” Sandblaster said.

Arcee’s optics narrowed. “You want to say that again?”

“Arcee,” Bulkhead muttered.

“No,” she said, rising. Around them, the remaining Eradicons tensed. Stalking down to where Traction sat, she leaned over the table. “You want to talk about scars?” she hissed. “I’ve lost two partners to your slagging war, and a dozen friends. I’m allowed a healthy amount of skepticism.”

She jerked back as Traction thrust a hand into her face. “Heatshield,” he said, extending one finger. “Tiltwing, Steelstrike, Flashbomb,” he continued, ticking them off. “Those are just the ones from _my_ unit. And just in the last vorn.” He cocked his head in lazy challenge. “So, Autobot, what have you got to say to that?”

“I say you want to take this outside?”

“Denied,” said Bulkhead firmly. “Ratchet doesn’t need us causing more problems.” Arcee’s mouth tightened, but her optics flickered in a way that he recognized. Calculating, for all that she was arguably the most responsible; she also concocted the most outrageous plans. “Arcee…”

She stuck out an expectant hand. “High grade.”

“Arcee, I don’t think that’s such a good—”

Her fingers flexed, demanding. “High. Grade.”

He sighed and passed a few of the cups her way. Moving to sit across from Traction, she arranged the cups between them. “Alright, Decepti-creep, since I can’t blast your head off your shoulders, we’re going to have a little…friendly competition. Sound good?”

Traction emptied his cup, slow and insolent, before setting it to the side. “Bring it on, Auto-loser.”

Bulkhead sighed and glowered at Breakdown, who was calmly sipping at his own drink. “Some help you are.”

Breakdown snorted. “What did you expect? This is way too entertaining.”

“Figures, you always were an ungrateful slagger.”

“You were expecting gratitude? For this?” Breakdown indicated the patch over his optic. “I’d call it payback for Delta.”

Bulkhead’s cup dented in his hand. “Delta doesn’t count, not after what happened.”

“I still saved your skidplate.”

“And then left me and Rotorstorm high and dry! With a full fleet of ‘Cons coming down on our heads!”

“What can I say? Orders are orders, and Knockout was getting transferred.”

“You’re such a shallow glitch; the two of you deserve each other. Makes me sick that a Wrecker would sell out for a cheap ‘face.”

Breakdown set down his cup. “You think I left over _Knockout_? Don’t be absurd; he’s good, but not that good. I just finally saw the light.”

“Yeah, the glow of Dark Energon.”

“You really think that if the Autobots had won in the early days that it would have changed a slagging thing? You can delude yourself all you want about the Prime, but at least with the ‘Cons I was cannon fodder with _rights_.”

“Optimus wanted to topple the caste system as badly as Megatron did. He just wanted to go through legal channels to do it instead of blowing up half the planet.”

“Oh, and I’m sure that would have worked. Pleading and compromising with the Senate while they whittled away at any legislation proposed until it changed exactly nothing when it was passed.”

“Optimus wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Well, I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

A long silence fell and Bulkhead settled for brooding over his cup in lieu of having to actually look at Breakdown. At the end of the table Arcee flipped her cup and set it down with a clunk in front of Traction, in a movement which, while satisfied, was also far too deliberate to be entirely sober. “Your move.”

The Eradicon eyed the line of empty vessels. “We’re out.”

“Only one way to fix that.”

Sandblaster, who had been sitting in subdued silence at Breakdown’s side, turned to watch the two of them as they staggered away from the table and towards the dispenser. “Aren’t you worried they might…you know?”

“Not really,” said Bulkhead, frowning as he tried to maneuver his newly dented cup for a swig. “I doubt he can take Arcee and she can’t aim for slag when she’s overcharged.”

“Not like Jackie,” Breakdown murmured, half to himself.

And despite the painful twist in his spark when Breakdown mentioned the nickname, Bulkhead found himself smiling into his cup. “No, not like Jackie.”

They sat in silence for several long moments, before Sandblaster spoke again, his voice quiet. “I can’t pretend to understand everything that happened between you two, but for what it’s worth, as awful as the war’s been, things have been better here than they were on Cybertron. It wasn’t until after I signed up that I saw a sun for the first time.” His tone was wistful and a touch nostalgic.

Bulkhead looked at the small mech, really looked at him. A mass-produced model, designed for operating drills and traversing the narrow tunnels of the energon mines, double visors for enhanced optical input in order to compensate for the endless dark. Bulkhead had never railed against the parameters of his own position, he liked construction and it paid adequately, but if he’d been one of those at the very bottom, would he have felt differently?

He found himself reaching for the other mech’s hand before he could stop himself, but hesitated before he could complete the motion, awkwardly hovering. “I…” He couldn’t think of any words that didn’t feel trite or utterly inadequate.

Sandblaster’s field flickered warmly against his own, and small clawed fingers reached up to brush his. “Thank you.”

“I hate to break up this sparkwarming sharing session,” said Breakdown. “But I think your friend just disappeared.”

Bulkhead whipped around, but sure enough, the mess was empty, “Scrap.”

Sandblaster laughed. “Come on, they can’t have gotten far.”

“Ratchet’s going to weld me to the wall if something happens to her,” Bulkhead grumbled, hauling himself up from the table. “Where do you think they went?”

“Traction’s room is down this hall,” Sandblaster said, palming the doors open. “We can start there.”

The rooms were unmarked with numbers or other identification, but Sandblaster led them unerringly to one on the right side, and punched in a code. “Sometimes I’ll recharge in here when Drop-Tank spends the night,” he said blithely. “Traction complains like a rusty gear, but the silly glitch still hasn’t changed the security code.” The doors slid open. “Oh my—”

Through the doorway Bulkhead could just make out the Eradicon, pinned face-down over one of the berths by none other than Arcee. And though the room wasn’t lit, the movements from the entwined pair made it abundantly clear what they were doing.

“Come on, Autobot,” Traction panted, clawing at the berth. “That all you got?”

Arcee laughed, low and satisfied, a sound which turned Bulkhead on more than he wanted to think about.

Sandblaster made a little noise and hit the keypad again. The doors slid shut, cutting off the visual and, thankfully, the audio as well, leaving them standing awkwardly in the hall.

“So,” said Sandblaster after a prolonged silence, sneaking a glance Breakdown’s way. “You think Knockout would be up for a foursome?”

Bulkhead choked on his own ventilation.

 

Ratchet couldn’t recharge.

He lay for cycles on the strange berth, staring up into the darkness of the room. Giving up at last, he engaged his comm link. Might as well check in with the base.

_“Agent Fowler?”_

A moment of silence, _“William’s asleep right now. The kids too. I’ve got the watch.”_

_“Mrs. Darby.”_

_“I’ve told you before, you can call me June. Is everything alright?”_

He intended to brush her off. This was only a standard check-in, to make sure the Decepticons were holding up their end of things, but he found himself saying, _“No, I don’t think it is.”_

_“Do you need a bridge?”_

_“No, nothing like that. I only…I was confronted with some things today which I was not prepared to deal with.”_

_“Would you like to talk about it?”_

_“I…”_ His spark turned within him. _“I injured someone, very cruelly, in a way they did not deserve.”_

_“Another soldier?”_

_“A Decepticon, but a non-combatant.”_

_“I see, can you say why?”_

_“For information.”_

He heard her sigh. _“Ratchet, I’ve never been in the military, so I can’t really comment on the ethicality, but sometimes we do things which are repugnant to us. All we can do is try to make up for them and move on.”_

 _“I don’t know how I can move on from this. Today I looked in someone’s optics and saw myself as a monster.”_ It felt so absurd to say it; despite his modified surgical tools he was easily the least combat-effective member of the team. _“I’ve never been the monster before.”_

A long silence. _“On Cybertron, do physicians take any sort of oath before they start practicing?”_

_“We are created with medical programming already intact.”_

_“I’ll take that as a no then. It’s falling out of practice now, but when I became a nurse, I took a special oath, to never use my skills to harm.”_

_“I think it’s a bit late for that.”_

_“Maybe, but we also promise to care for the patient regardless of affiliation, class or creed. You may have hurt someone, but there’s nothing stopping you from offering to repair the damage you’ve done.”_

_“I don’t know if I can face him.”_

_“That’s part of the penance. He may even refuse you, that’s a risk you take, but hopefully you can begin to earn his forgiveness.”_

_“Thank you, June.”_

_“Of course. I take it we shouldn’t expect you back for a day or two?”_

_“I apologize for the inconvenience.”_

_“No problem, I don’t have any shifts this weekend and William can get all kinds of food delivered here, even if the delivery men all wear suits and sunglasses and call me ‘Ma’am.’ And I can drop the kids off Monday before work.”_

_“Thank you again.”_

_“Good night, Ratchet.”_ The link clicked off and he lay quiet for several long moments before gathering himself.

He didn’t know if this was going to do any good, but all he could do was try.

 

Bulkhead readjusted his grip on Sandblaster’s pelvic span, shifting the miner forward as delicately as he could. The new angle allowed him to increase the depth of his thrusts and Sandblaster made an appreciative sound, grinding back against him.

Propped against the wall of his quarters, no way could they all fit on the berth, Breakdown stroked the Eradicon’s helm fondly as small clawed fingers caressed his spike.

It was beyond ridiculous and a violation of more laws than Bulkhead could remember, but he also hadn’t had a proper 'face in over thirty vorns and Sandblaster was tight in that just-bordering-on-incompatible way and the look that Breakdown was giving him across the Eradicon’s dorsal plating was making him remember the last time they’d hooked up with Jackie while on leave on Moonbase Two and those thoughts weren’t doing anything to help him stave off overload.

Below him Sanblaster cried out, the crackling current of his overload rippling through the walls of his valve and Bulkhead groaned.

“Come on, Bulkhead,” Breakdown rumbled. “Want me to spike you like that time in Polyhex? Think you cracked a gasket when you finally went, though I suppose Pyro sucking your spike probably helped—”

Bulkhead jerked, his body convulsing as he overloaded helplessly. Groaning, he barely managed to roll himself off Sandblaster to avoid crushing him and sprawled back on the floor, legs spread.

“Get over here, you slagger,” he gasped.

Breakdown smiled.

 

Knockout eyed the yellow Autobot scout with a mix of amusement and disdain. Bumblebee was looking at him defiantly.

“Lost, little scout?”

Bumblebee beeped a fierce negative, but his energy field flickered with embarrassment.

Knockout sighed. It might be Megatron’s prerogative to fill his ship with Autobots, but it was not Knockout’s responsibility to baby-sit. In fact he was pretty sure someone else had been given that particular task.

He frowned and pinged Breakdown. The garbled, distracted databurst he received in return gave him a pretty good idea what his assistant was up to.

 _Honestly, Breakdown, you couldn’t wait until the_ second _cycle of negotiations to ‘face him?_

He momentarily toyed with the idea of joining them. The thought of being sandwiched in between two mechs the size of his partner, plus however many Eradicons Breakdown had managed to collect this time, was appealing, but then again he’d just waxed…

He sighed and regarded the scout once more. Bumblebee was a bit young, but his plating gleamed even in the dim light of the _Nemesis_ and he smelled freshly waxed, and considering past events he’d probably be willing to keep mum about the whole thing. 

Yes, he’d do nicely.

Bumblebee jumped as Knockout waved his hand in an imperious gesture.

“Come on, Auto-loser, we’re going racing.”

 

Trencher curled further into the curve of Drop-Tank’s body and tried to ignore how much like a weakling it made him feel. Drop-Tank’s energy field was pulsing in a steady, soothing rhythm which had to be deliberate and Trencher's taxed systems latched onto it, slowing his spark into a pace below jackhammer-quick.

The door pinged an entry request.

“Just ignore it,” Drop-Tank murmured. “They’ll comm if they really need us.”

The door pinged again.

“Might be Sandblaster,” Trencher said. “The glitch is always forgetting the code when he gets overcharged. I should…”

Drop-Tank sighed, “Fine, I’ll get it.” His field pulsed with affectionate resignation. “You stay.”

He ignored his partner and sat up as Drop-Tank slid the door open. And then there was a blur as his spark seized and stuttered, his audio sensors echoing with the high whine of Drop-Tank’s charging weapon.

“Get out,” Drop-Tank’s voice was colder than Trencher had ever heard it.

“Please, wait,” the Autobot medic held up his hands in supplication. “I want to help.”

“We don’t want you here.”

“He—you haven’t had your visors looked at properly, have you?” the medic addressed Trencher directly. “Optics are tricky business, but I was a specialist before the war. If you’ll let me, I’d like to offer you repairs.”

Drop-Tank looked his way, field flickering with tension and Trencher knew with surety that if he gave the word Drop-Tank would fling the medic out on his skidplate. And that knowledge was enough to shore up against the blind panic and let him think. He looked between them, weighing his options.

Shaking, he pointed at Drop-Tank. “He stays.”

The medic nodded.

“And we do this here.”

“Of course.”

He nodded to Drop-Tank, who stepped back to allow the medic to enter, tension evident in every line of his frame. The medic approached, cautious. “My designation is Ratchet; may I ask yours?”

“Trencher,” he said shortly. “He’s Drop-Tank.”

Ratchet knelt by the berth. “May I see?”

It made him nervous to let the Autobot out of his field of view, but he turned his head obediently and heard the hum of scanners engaging. There was a silence as the medic ran calculations.

“I believe I can restore your visual field to approximately eighty percent of its original width with some wire replacements. It’s fairly minor surgery and I can perform it here easily enough.”

A twenty percent increase. While it might not seem like much, his visors were specially designed for acute vision in near-total darkness. Eighty percent would be a vast improvement. “Alright.”

“Would you lie back?”

Trencher obeyed, glancing at Drop-Tank briefly as he did so.

Ratchet shifted closer. “Normally I’d induce stasis for something like this, but in light of things, would you prefer a localized sensor block?”

The thought of Ratchet’s tools on his face again was terrifying, but the thought of not knowing what he was doing felt somehow worse. Trencher let out a shaky wash of air and uncovered the medical port on the back of his neck. “Sensor block.”

Ratchet nodded and a small medical cable extended from his chassis, probing at the port briefly before linking them. Introductory packets were exchanged and then sensory input from Trencher's face and neck vanished, leaving him in darkness. Clawed fingers slipped between his own as Drop-Tank grasped his hand. He ignored the embarrassment and squeezed back.

He didn’t know how long he laid there, Drop-Tank stroking the back of his hand as Ratchet tinkered with the internals of his face, but at length the medic announced, “Done,” and the sensor block lifted. Trencher's optics rebooted.

Still a blind spot on his right, but now he could see Drop-Tank and Ratchet where they hovered by the berth without turning his head. “Better.” He re-calibrated his optics for the new visual feed and made a few small adjustments. “Thank you.”

Ratchet looked pained. “Thanks are not necessary.” Backing away from the berth, he rose to his feet with a creaking and clanking of joints and made for the door. “For what it is worth, I regret harming you.”

And then he was gone, leaving the two of them alone.

“How do you feel?” Drop-Tank said.

Trencher reached up and felt along the newly repaired plating on his face, testing the scarred edges.

“Like Orion really is something,” he said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got a little bit of breathing space to work on this during the weekend. :3 The plan to restore Optimus moves onward, whether or not Orion, and Megatron, are prepared for it. Many thanks to you all for your kind words, your support and enthusiasm. Happy reading. <3

Arcee, Autobot intelligence agent and the best shot on Team Prime, woke with a splitting processor and very little memory of how she’d managed to make it to a berth.

Groaning, she rolled over, optics still offline. Her foot clanged against something and she froze.

Then the thing moved and let out a staticky mumble.

Make that some _one_.

Her optics flashed online, “Scrap.”

“No need to sound _too_ ecstatic,” Traction said. He rolled over, his visor flaring to life. “For the record, I’ve had better too.”

She scowled. “Yeah, that’s why I’ve got memory fragments of you begging me to spike you harder.”

Traction snickered. “I never said it was bad, just that I’ve had better.” He shifted and winced. “Though maybe not bigger.” He sounded vaguely impressed.

She shot him a calculating look. “You realize you’re impugning my reputation? You asking for a rematch?”

His field flickered with amusement and he made a lazy, sweeping gesture. “By all means. I’ve still got a bit of charge to burn off.”

 _Arrogant little glitch, I’ll show him._ Sitting up, a movement which made her systems squawk in protest, she straddled him and snapped the cover on her valve back. His energy field buzzed with surprise.

“I thought this was a rematch?”

She smirked. “It is.”

 

Two of the Autobots were late.

Ratchet eyed Megatron with suspicion from across the table. Beside the medic the yellow scout sat at attention, but Megatron had already caught him discretely picking what appeared to be tiny organics from his grill three times now.

“Is discipline always so lax among your ranks?” Megatron said aloud.

Ratchet scowled at him. “I have commed Arcee and Bulkhead. They are on their way.”

“I am certain it is only a minor interference,” Orion said.

Just then the doors of the conference room slid open and the large, green mech hurried in, followed closely by the femme. “Sorry, Ratchet,” Bulkhead said. “There was just a—”

“We’ll discuss this later,” the medic interrupted, his voice tight.

The Autobots sat.

“I trust you had a pleasant night?” Megatron said.

Arcee narrowed her optics at him briefly before her expression smoothed out and a smug, self-satisfied smile stole across her face. “Very pleasant.”

 _Interesting._ Arcee had several small streaks of purple paint on her chassis. _I wonder who among my crew is bold enough to be consorting with the Autobots._ A searching glance at Bulkhead revealed a handful of navy marks on his plating. _Or rather, who is not._

“If you are rested, perhaps we should continue to the next order of business,” Orion said. “The Key to Vector Sigma?”

_Ah yes, the mysterious custodian of the Key. Whom did you give it to, Prime?_

Ratchet folded his hands atop the table. “Unfortunately, the matter of the Key is not so simple. None of us were given guardianship over it.”

“None of you?” Orion frowned. “Then who has possession of it?”

Ratchet exchanged a look with Arcee. “An organic.”

Orion looked at a loss. “An organic? I presume…you are referring to a member of this planet’s dominant species? Who among them would I—the Prime have trusted with such an important artifact?”

Megatron scowled. “I think I can guess.”

 

Despite the gravity of the situation, Orion could not help the swelling of curiosity and excitement in him as they descended from the _Nemesis_. Ratchet had been adamant that they leave the ship behind in order the meet these mysterious organics. Stepping onto the strange, red-brown ground, he looked up at the unfamiliar sky and watched the ship recede. Beside him, Megatron folded his arms across his chassis and looked out across the open landscape.

The flash of an opening spacebridge brought his attention away from a winged creature circling far above them. As the Autobots rolled through, followed by Grimlock and his crew, Megatron shifted minutely, into a stance Orion recognized from the few times he’d seen him in the arena; angling his body so he could use his sword or cannon while minimizing the size of the target he presented.

It struck Orion suddenly, the magnitude of the risk in which they’d placed themselves. Megatron had agreed to Ratchet’s demand that they come alone with a lack of protest that bordered on arrogance, but as the Dynobots ranged themselves out in a loose arrangement not unlike a battle formation, Orion felt a strange pulse of fright as he realized just how perfect the opportunity was for an assassination attempt.

Would the Autobots be willing to give up on peace talks for the chance to fell their greatest foe?

 _And I no threat, unable to stop them if they should try._ A chill crept across him and he shifted closer to Megatron, trying to arrange himself in such a way that he would not hinder Megatron’s movement, but might interfere with a long range attack.

Megatron glanced at him before turning his optics back to the Autobots. It seemed he had determined Orion’s intent though, because he smirked very slightly.

The Autobot rolled to a stop a short distance away and Orion found his gaze drawn to the small creature mounted on Arcee’s back. The basic shape was familiar, bipedal, four limbs, one head, but it was so...small.

Then the creature pulled off the solid structure covering its helm and Orion looked into the strange, liquid optics of an alien.

Arcee transformed and straightened as the organic dismounted and the two of them approached. She inclined her head, eyeing Megatron with no small amount of suspicion. “Orion Pax, meet Jack Darby, keeper of the Key to Vector Sigma.”

“Greetings,” said Orion, before remembering himself. “Oh, you must excuse me.” He crouched, lowering his upper body towards the organic, “I am unused to communicating with one so...”

“Short?” the organic, Jack, laughed. “Well then it’s a good thing I’m used to communicating with one so tall.”

Orion smiled, “I regret I must say I have no recollection of you, but as I, or rather the Prime, bestowed the Key upon you, you must be counted as a friend to our kind.”

“More than a friend,” Arcee muttered and Orion glanced at her in surprise. “Family,” she said, a hint of steel in her optics and voice.

Orion nodded, gesturing behind him, “Then, Jack Darby, Autobot-brother, may I present Megatron, leader of the Decepticons.” He held Arcee’s gaze, “My own brother.”

Arcee tensed and Jack raised one optical ridge. “I’m gonna guess that your species defines brotherhood a lot more expansively than ours does,” he said.

“There is no need to be obscene, organic,” rumbled Megatron, scowling. “What transpires between Orion and myself is our business alone. And introductions are unnecessary, Orion. The impertinent Jack Darby and I are already well acquainted.”

“If by ‘well acquainted’ you mean I spent an afternoon with an energon drill pointed at your spark, then call me amigo.”

“Is this true?” said Orion, pushing down a pulse of distress.

Megatron scoffed, “Your chosen organic was too weak to finish it.”

“Perhaps that is not weakness,” said Orion softly. Turning his attention back to Jack, he inclined his head, “I must offer you my gratitude, Jack Darby, for sparing the life of one who is very dear to me.”

A startled look flashed across Jack’s face. “I wasn’t, I mean I didn’t, I just thought that Optimus,” he waved his hands helplessly. “You’re welcome, I guess?”

“If the various pleasantries are concluded,” said Megatron, his voice tight. “Perhaps we could move on?”

“Of course,” said Orion. “The Autobots have explained the situation to you, Jack Darby?”

Jack nodded, his expression serious. “There’s a big bad headed for Cybertron, and we need Optimus to fight it. So we’ve got to get you and me back there, to access Vector Sigma.”

Orion pushed down a surge of nauseous unease. While he could not refute the logic in this plan to resurrect the Autobot Prime, in the core of him he was frightened. Frightened by the thought that somewhere within him lurked a creature which had commanded armies. Had left scars on Megatron and Soundwave. 

“Those are the mission parameters as they currently stand,” Orion managed.

“The space bridge will be operational in nine point eight megacycles,” Megatron broke in, his gaze fixed on Orion. “My workers are making the final calibrations. You will receive a message with its coordinates at that time.” He looked at Jack. “So I suggest you pack an exosuit, Jack Darby, unless you wish to take your chances with our atmosphere.”

“Finest human technology has to offer,” Jack said, smirking.

Megatron snorted. “Our party must be small, to move swiftly. My troops will enter after, to hold back the tide of the Swarm. I trust your soldiers can be expected to play their part?”

“We can snuff Swarm as well as your grunts,” Arcee said. “But if you think we’re letting you near Vector Sigma without an entourage, you’re glitched.”

Megatron raised a brow ridge. “Of course, what is the threat of the Swarm, when weighed against some imagined menace which I present?”

Arcee shot him a withering look and Jack interjected. “Nine point eight megacycles, we’ll be waiting.”

Orion nodded in relief and rose. “I am pleased to meet you, Jack Darby. I only wish it was under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Me too,” said Jack. “But hey, I get the chance to boldly go where no man has gone before, so I think I can forgive you.”

The phrasing meant nothing to Orion, but he gave a small bow. Arcee transformed and Jack clambered aboard her, an action which still seemed highly irregular to Orion, but she bore it without fuss. Her wheels kicked up ruddy dust and they shot back towards group of waiting Autobots.

“Come,” said Megatron. “If we are to walk into the dragon’s mouth, it would be better to do so with working weapons.”

 

Orion knelt before the medical bench, arms stretched across it, the plating of his forearm guards open. Knockout bent over them, tinkering with the exposed wiring.

“You did quite a number on this blade, Lord Megatron,” Knockout said, setting aside his welding iron. 

Megatron grunted, but did not reply. To have Optimus’s weapons so close by, even dismantled, left him hyper-aware and vaguely uneasy.

Orion flinched as Knockout exerted pressure at several points in his right arm. “Easy, big boy,” Knockout chuckled. “I need to check the transformation sequence. Make sure everything’s in working order. Just relax.”

“Of course,” said Orion, his voice deceptively steady. There was a slight fizzle of current and then the familiar sound of Optimus’s blade engaging. Megatron’s weapons began to cycle on and he terminated the line of code before it could complete.

“There we go,” Knockout said. “Good as new.” He closed and latched the guard before patting Orion’s arm in an exaggerated, saccharine manner. “How do you feel?”

Blue optics met Megatron’s before Orion’s gaze slid aside. “Like a weapon,” he said at last.

The resigned weight in Orion’s voice sent an unfamiliar pang through Megatron’s spark.

 

Orion flexed his newly repaired arm and looked about the expanse of the _Nemesis’s_ flight deck. “Are you sure this is necessary?”

“All the bodyguards in the galaxy will not be sufficient if you cannot turn aside an enemy blade,” said Megatron. “There is no means to teach you all of Optimus’s tricks, but you have weapons now and you must learn to use them.” He nodded at Orion, “Now, your blades.”

“What about the blasters? Knockout said I had--”

“Any enemy combatant far enough for blaster fire is far enough for me to reach them,” interrupted Megatron. “Your blades.”

A strangely mulish expression crossed Orion’s face, but he obeyed.

“Come at me.”

“But what if I—”

“If you are able to place a single scratch on me I will rescind the execution order on Starscream, now come at me!”

Orion charged.

Megatron had to admit, despite the clumsiness of the maneuver, he could count five vital spots he could have hit with his cannon before Orion took three paces, he found he admired the conviction behind it. He caught Orion as he came barrelling into him, turning aside a downward stroke and using Orion’s mass and momentum to send him shooting past. Orion staggered as he struggled to turn, but did not fall and Megatron felt a faint surge of pride.

Movement out of the corner of his optic, some of the crew were gathering to watch, a few still subtly pretending to be carrying out their duties. Megatron smirked, “Again.”

Orion’s battlemask engaged and he charged.

For every slash Megatron turned aside he shouted out instructions, taunts, corrections, trusting that Orion’s keen processor would take them in, commit them to memory even as he stumbled through the ungainly motions of battle. And then a clever strike forced Megatron to leap back or risk injury and he laughed.

“That’s it, no mercy, press your advantage while you can!”

He started to jump away but Orion slammed into him. Orion’s knowledge of battle might be nil, but his height and mass were still that of Optimus Prime and Megatron staggered under the weight, grappling as his opponent sought to shove him over. Battle protocols engaged and for the moment all he could see was the harsh line of the battlemask, all he could hear was the pulse and hum of energon through Optimus’s blades.

He overturned his opponent with a roar, slamming him against the flight deck of the ship. A small pain flared in his arm, but he scarcely noticed it, cannon springing to life and—

“Lord Megatron!”

Megatron wrenched his arm away, cannon discharging into empty air, the heat and force of it washing over them. Orion was utterly still beneath him, optics wide.

Megatron jerked his head up, seeking among the crowd of Eradicons to find who had shouted, but they all vanished as one, disappearing into the depths of the ship. He cycled his vents and looked back down at Orion.

Orion’s hands had returned to root mode and were lying limp beside him. The mask was retracted and there was a slightly pained expression on his face.

“Orion,” Megatron rasped. Not an apology but an explanation. “I lost control.”

“You...you weren’t fighting me anymore, were you?” Orion said solemnly. “You were fighting _him_.”

He could not deny it. 

Orion started to reach up but aborted the gesture before it could complete and swallowed hard. “I’d like to touch you, but I do not wish to upset you.”

Unspeakably strange, he could kill or maim Orion three different ways in this position, had in all likelyhood injured him if the few dents he could see were any indication, and yet Orion looked at him as though he were the vulnerable one, the one needing comfort.

He was uncomfortably aware of their exposed position, but the flight deck was empty. Surely here, on his own warship... He took Orion’s hands in his own, guided them to his body, allowed himself to be coaxed down, covering Orion, pressing them close until he could feel the pulse of another spark beside his own.

Orion’s hand stroked down the seam of his forearm guards, fingers smearing through the trickle of energon, “You’re injured.”

“Hardly an injury,” Megatron said. “I have been scratched worse by mining equipment.”

“I see,” Orion said. “And yet still a scratch. Are you going to rescind Starscream’s execution order then?”

Megatron considered grumbling, but the Seeker _did_ make an efficient Second, when he didn’t permit his ego to overwhelm him. He tossed off a brief data packet to Soundwave. His officer would not doubt pass the news along. “Very well, you wretch, I was in a good mood today anyhow.”

Something pinged down against the metal of the deck beside them and Orion flinched, looking up at the sky with alarm, “Shouldn’t we?”

“The rain cannot hurt you here,” he said as the drops began to patter down around them, sliding between the plates of their armor and raising a faint mist around them as they hit heated components and evaporated. He rested his weight on Orion, appreciative that he could now do so without the danger of crushing Orion into scrap. Orion slid his arms up around his chest, hooking his fingers in the dorsal plates of Megatron’s armor.

“The bridge stays open,” Megatron said. “If Cybertron falls…” He did not speak of conquering, the restless selfish thoughts of snatching up Orion and fleeing, of leaving the Autobots to their broken and dead world. All he had to offer, Orion had never wanted.

Orion’s arms tightened around him and he did not answer.

 

They’d burrowed down into an energon mine to build the bridge, for ready access to a fuel supply and for the protection provided by layers of rock. Flat on his back, Trencher tinkered with the components of an enormous drill. The alignment was off, resulting in strut-shaking tremors during operation, a dangerous thing when dealing with something as unstable as energon crystals.

“I don’t want you there,” said Drop-Tank. His field pulsed with restless anger.

“Orders,” said Trencher, unconcerned. He shut the access hatch on the drill and nodded to Sandblaster, perched on the controls. “Fire her up.”

Sandblaster complied and the drill cycled on with a high whine, drowning out any attempts at conversation. Drop-Tank of course, merely switched to comms, _“I don’t give a slag.”_ He hesitated, these were dangerous words, even in the relative privacy of internal communications, but barreled on, _“I don’t care what your orders are. You could be killed.”_

_“And you couldn’t be? Haven’t you heard? This is the eleventh hour, we don’t do something, Cybertron goes poof.”_

_“You’re still injured.”_

_“Doing better now, thanks to that slagging medic.”_ He bit back a pulse of distress he couldn’t control. _“Orion asked for me, and good thing he did too. Those slagging higher-ups are useless when it comes to navigating the mines and tunnels.”_

Drop-Tank was silent for a long moment. _“No one will quite say what’s going on. Keep hearing words batted around, Liege Maximo, The Swarm,”_ his visor dimmed and his field pulsed, troubled, _“and Vector Sigma.”_

Trencher hesitated, but he hadn’t been given any orders regarding the sensitivity of information on this mission. _“They’re going to try and revive the Prime.”_

Drop-Tank cycled his vents. _“Great Primus.”_

_“Might get to see him too.”_

Drop-Tank shook his head. _“You’re not religious in the least, Trencher. Why are you doing this?_

 _“Told you, Orion asked. And because I may not be devout, but I’m slagging tired of this war.”_ He waved at Sandblaster and the other mech shut off the drill. “Besides, you’ll be there too. I should slag _you_ for signing up behind my back.”

Sandblaster snickered and Drop-Tank made a spluttering noise. “I didn’t, I wasn’t, Soundwave—”

Trencher cuffed him on the ankle and rose. “Come here, you slagging glitch.”

Drop-Tank’s field pulsed with annoyance and worry as Trencher reached up and hooked him by the antennae. He pressed their helms together, stretching until he could feel the flare of Drop-Tank’s spark through his chassis armor. “You are going to be careful. You are going to do your slagging best to not get yourself killed.”

Drop-Tank’s visor offlined. “You first,” he said softly.

 _“Dredger says the Autobots are here,”_ commed Sandblaster.

Trencher tightened his grip around Drop-Tank’s antennae until he squirmed. “Showtime,” he said.

_“I love you.”_

_“I know.”_

_“I wanted to ask, will you—”_

_“Later, ask me later.”_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crawls out of grave with tombstone labeled 'I SOLD MY SOUL TO SCIENCE' and flops down on the cemetery grass* Hello, gentle readers, I come bearing gifts. x_x Hopefully of the desirable kind. This chapter is brought to you by a combination of kindly nagging and Mary Lambert music. The campaign for Cybertron begins, and Megatron will face both his god and his choices. Happy reading to you all and many thanks for your continued support on this wild ride. <3

It went against Megatron’s every instinct to escort the Autobots into the mine, but he gave no indication of his unease. Orion paced him, quiet and subdued, his officers trailing behind them. The tunnels were a maelstrom of emotion as Decepticon and Autobot fields mixed and clashed.

The miner with the scarred faceplate was waiting for them at the bridge. He bowed to Megatron and Orion and cast an unreadable look at the Autobots. Megatron noted his gaze lingered on the medic.

A ping from Soundwave, the troops were prepared, ready to be deployed. He cast a cursory glance over Soundwave’s battle plan, then paused. The plan was sound, structured to take advantage of Iacon’s last known layout, but Soundwave had attached a superfluous file. Megatron opened it, half-expecting some sort of brusque note of final respects. Instead a string of glyphs Megatron had last seen carved into a wall in the waiting area of the Kaon arena confronted him.

_Megatronus, stop performing oral sex on Orion against the wall like a turbofox. - Grimlock_

Megatron smirked and sent back a stamp of approval.

Soundwave cocked his head and his energy field buzzed with amusement. Before them, the space bridge roared to life.

“It’s rude to pass notes in class,” remarked Grimlock, stepping up beside them and casting a meaningful look at Soundwave. He dropped a comforting hand on Orion’s shoulder guard. “Don’t worry, Pax, I’ve got your back.”

Megatron shot him a dirty look, but Orion nodded. “Thank you,” he said, though his energy field was drawn in far too tight to sense his emotional state. It was similar enough to Optimus to set Megatron on edge. Orion turned back to the howling bridge and his battlemask snapped into place. An unconscious response or not, Megatron did not know. 

“Let’s roll out,” Orion said.

 

The streets of Iacon were cinder-black. Per Shockwave’s request, the bridge spat them out near the Hall of Records. His officer was waiting for them, a large, cloaked mech at his side. Orion’s optics lit at the sight of him.

“Alpha Trion!”

“Orion,” a smile spread across Alpha Trion’s face, his extensive facial fins twitching. His expression cooled as he acknowledged Megatron. “Cutting it rather close, aren’t you?” He indicated the skies above them. In the distance Megatron could see the fiery trails of descending craft. “Maximo is here.”

“Have you calculated his touchdown point?”

“Much of the Swarm appears to be heading for Altihex, but this is almost certainly the result of an overshoot,” said Shockwave. “Alpha Trion has reason to believe they will strike Iacon first.”

“Maximo was never known for subtlety,” said Trion sourly. “I will do my best to distract him.”

Orion’s field pulsed with worry. “But you could be killed!”

“A necessary risk. If he turns his attention on you, all of this will be for naught.” Alpha Trion huffed. “And despite what you might think, Orion, I am far from helpless.”

“I can help with that,” said Grimlock. “Snarl, Slag, Sludge, stick with the old geezer. His spark doesn’t go out until yours do.”

Alpha Trion scowled as the Dynobots moved towards him. “Creche-minders, every one of you,” he said, but did not protest further.

“My troops will be moving through the bridge in due time,” said Megatron. “The Eradicons are under orders to hold the city.” 

“What are they saying?” Jack whispered to Arcee. “Can they show us where Vector Sigma is?”

“The organic raises a good point,” said Megatron. “Do you know of Vector Sigma’s location?”

Trion snorted, “If I knew that, I would have given you spacebridge coordinates.”

“I realize that its location is shrouded in mystery, but are there not records of some sort?” said Ratchet.

“Dozens, from early Primes or miners who stumbled onto it. But none recent enough to be of use. Hazards of a planet capable of transforming. Vector Sigma _moves_ , medical officer.”

“For a god made corporeal, Primus is far too clever for his own good,” muttered Megatron.

Ratchet made an affronted noise, but Alpha Trion laughed. “Not quite too clever. The Key will lead you there.”

Arcee looked towards Jack. “Jack, the Key.”

Jack made a slight sound and rummaged about his person before holding up the item. “Now what…” he trailed off, staring at the Key. “It’s glowing. I don’t think it did that before.”

“Is there any discernable change in the strength of the signal?” said Ratchet, half-crouching to get a better look.

“Uh,” Jack waved the Key about. “That way?” He indicated a road stretching into the distance.

“Towards Kaon,” said Megatron.

“Why would Vector Sigma be in the Decepticon capital?” said Arcee. 

Ignoring her, Megatron nodded to his officers. “Knockout, Breakdown, Shockwave, stay with the Autobots to guard Orion and the organic. Soundwave, you’re with me.” He leapt and transformed, flight engines roaring to life. _“We will meet you in Kaon.”_

“Where are you going?” shouted Alpha Trion, barely audible over the scream of thrusters.

_“To find help,”_ said Megatron before streaking off across the sky, Soundwave at his side. He pinged the other mech on the comms. _“Wake the sentinels.”_

Soundwave’s ping of obedience had a distinctly satisfied tone to it.

 

The energon mine was silent but for the constant low-level thunder of the spacebridge. Sandblaster stood at the controls, monitoring the power levels as lines of Eradicons flooded through the bridge, and resisted the urge to fidget.

_“You think they’ll make it?”_ commed Dozer, uncharacteristically subdued.

_“I don’t know,”_ said Sandblaster. _“But we can’t waste time wondering about it. It’s our job to keep the bridge open, whether things go well, or if they go to slag.”_ He deliberately shunted aside the memory of curling up on Bulkhead’s chassis, the sweetly awkward way the Wrecker had petted his helm. _“At least we can give them a way out.”_

Dozer gave a sad whistle. _“I always hoped we might see Cybertron again.”_

Sandblaster didn’t have an answer to offer. The last of the troops vanished through the bridge, leaving behind only a handful of miners. Setting his systems to notify him of any flux in the energon flow, he leaned against the console and cycled his vents.

A ping to his comms, from one of the two left to guard the entrance to the mine. Grumbling, he answered. _“Driller, I told you, no clogging up the comms unless it’s an emergency. Is this an emergency?_

Driller sounded distinctly uneasy. _“Well, no, not exactly, but—”_

_Driller, you’ve barely been there a breem. What could possibly have happened?”_

“What do you mean ‘indisposed’?” came the echo of a familiar screech down the tunnel. “Out of my way, you fools!”

“Commander—” 

Starscream stalked into view, looking utterly affronted and followed closely by Driller, who was struggling to get a word in edgewise. “I can’t believe this! All the _personal_ time and effort I put into this project and the moment they catch wind that Cybertron’s been revived they go marching off without so much as a _by your leave_.”

“Commander, that’s not—” said Sandblaster, straightening.

Starscream flung up his hand. “I don’t want to hear it! That blasted Soundwave sent me a communique. How in the name of Unicron is the rescinded execution order supposed to do me the least bit of good if that wretched spy manages to grab all the glory!” He leapt, just managing to avoid the ceiling of the tunnel and transformed, his thrusters engaging with a roar. “I _will_ be at Lord Megatron’s side when he reclaims Cybertron!”

He vanished through the bridge with a flash and Driller skidded to a halt beside Sandblaster. “Should we,” he panted, “should we tell him?”

“Nah,” said Sandblaster. “He’ll figure it out soon enough.”

 

Megatron dropped his left wing and rolled, narrowly avoiding a blast from a Swarm drone. The percussive heat washed over him, a hot kiss against his plating and he dove. Pulling up sharply, he killed his thrusters and permitted himself to drop, allowing the weight of the aft end of his alt mode to pivot him, swinging his cannon up and into position to fire into its belly. The Swarm exploded, raining shrapnel across the landscape, and Megatron kicked his thrusters to life again, bursting through a cloud of ash and smoke as more tried to close in on him.

Soundwave skimmed by, wing just brushing the surface of the cloud, picking off Swarm with precise, deadly shots. _“...too many!”_ crackled the voice of an unknown soldier across the comms.

_“Thank you for pointing that out.”_ said Megatron, his tone dour. _“I had forgotten I hired you because I do not possess working optics.”_

Soundwave dipped beneath the surface of the cloud, the whine of his engines kicking up, and a Decepticon scout snapped _“...then I think I want a raise.”_

_“Find some means to turn the tide,”_ said Megatron, blasting through a Swarm cluster. _“And I’ll consider it.”_

A familiar, cackling laugh echoed across the commlines and beneath it Knockout said, _“As you wish.”_

Megatron almost demanded to know what he meant, but an angry screech and the high whine of jet engines split the air. Above him, another Swarm drone exploded in a hail of shrapnel. Belatedly, Megatron rolled, just managing to get clear as a strafing line of fire ripped through a group of drones.

_“Not quite at your peak today, are you, **Master**?”_ Starscream said.

_“I have never needed to be at my peak to match you, Starscream,”_ said Megatron. _“Now I take it you have set aside your foolish aspirations of rebellion?”_

Megatron dove as a missile tore through the sky above him and blasted apart a drone, scattering its fellows. _“Perhaps,”_ said Starscream, sounding snide and amused. _“Perhaps not. But if you think that I will stand idly by and let you reclaim Cybertron without laying claim to my piece, then your central processing module is rusty.”_

_“What did you tell him?”_ Megatron said to Soundwave in private.

Soundwave’s answering ping was smug. _“…magician…never reveal…his secrets.”_

Megatron grumbled before reconnecting to the main commline. _“You want glory, Starscream? Then prove to me that you are still my Air Commander. Our troops are on their way, the sentinels are rising. Prove to Maximo the truth of Decepticon might. Take back the skies of Cybertron!”_

Starscream cackled. _“Gladly, **master**.”_

_“I want you with me,”_ Megatron said to Soundwave. “Leave Starscream to his war games. Maximo is not among his troops. We need to get to Orion.”

They peeled off, riding the choking clouds of dust and ash as they streaked towards Kaon. 

 

The Kaon arena.

It seemed fitting, that it should be here, his birthplace as it were. The birthplace of Megatronus. That vorns of rage and futile searching for the deity-machine that had rent Orion from him—a lie, his processor whispered, it was you Orion walked away from, always you—should lead him back to this place of spilt energon and reminders of all his failures.

The Autobots and his own crew clustered before a clear area in the center of the arena, in the shadow of the massive statue guarding the gate. Megatron swooped and struck the ground, transforming and rolling to his feet, Soundwave at his side.

The group barely spared them a glance, all optics fixed on the ground, on the tiny organic—Jack Darby—standing with the Key uplifted, a pinpoint beacon in the ash-dark gloom. The arena floor shook, the seismic tremor and grumble of machinery springing to life for the first time in eons, and began to rise.

“Been a while since I visited,” murmured Grimlock as Megatron approached. “Can’t say I think much of what you’ve done with the place.”

“For the record,” said Megatron. “The statue was not my idea.”

Grimlock snorted softly. “Pull the other one. It’s got a detonator attached.”

Megatron gave him a superior scowl and shouldered past him, moving to stand near Orion as the arena floor split, unfolding and forming into a sloping entryway. The doors shook, raising soot and metal dust, and slid apart.

_“Holy open sesame, Batman,”_ said Jack over the comms.

“Come,” said Orion, optics fixed on the yawning entrance, and something in Megatron’s core twisted. “We must hurry.”

Megatron knew the mining tunnels beneath Kaon like the interior circuitry of his own cannon, but their descent was alien to him, a network that had hitherto been closed unfolding, bridges and pathways leaping into existence where there were none before. Megatron would carve out his own optics before he admitted fear, but there was something distinctly unsettling in the way the caverns twisted, a strange intent in the thrumming machinery around them.

_A planet capable of transforming._

Megatron had been too intimate with the dark powers of the universe to believe in the absence of beings of cosmic might, but it was one thing to know, in a vague way, that the ground beneath his feet housed the bones of some ancient, dead god and quite another to see that power brought to life, to see his own guts as a miniature mirror of something beyond the scale of comprehension.

“How do we know we are going the right way?” he said, hating the edge he could hear in his own voice.

He expected the organic to answer, but it was Orion who did so. “We are.”

“How do you know?” he said, grateful for this, this challenge, this comfortable friction.

Orion did not stop moving, or look at him. “Because I remember going this way,” he said, so quiet his voice was nearly lost in the grind of machinery around them.

Megatron faltered, stiffening, and kept himself moving by sheer force of will alone, his processor racing.

_He remembers. Perhaps not all of it, but this, he must know, must sense it. How he followed the ancient pathways, no map or Key to guide him, nothing but his conviction, his faith to spur him onwards. To petition. To plead for aid, even if it meant sacrificing all he was._

_To stop you, what you had wrought, what you had become._

Orion had been smaller then, not clad even in the veneer of the warrior. How long had he wandered? Praying, reaching for something that perhaps did not even exist. How long, and for what?

_“To help you,”_ said Orion’s voice, soft across the comms and Megatron jerked, startled from his thoughts. _“It is…hazy, but I remember that much. I wanted to help you, to keep you safe.”_

_“By remaking yourself into my enemy?”_ the bitter words slipped out, and Orion flinched.

_“No,”_ he said. _“By molding myself into something that could protect you from any power in the universe.”_ He glanced sidelong at Megatron. _“And from yourself.”_

Megatron scoffed. _“My cause was righteous, Orion. All I did was in service of it.”_

Orion did not look at him, but one of his orbital ridges crept upwards. _“You decided to dabble in dark magic and call upon the single most destructive force known to our kind in order to secure lower-caste voting rights and access to energon?”_

Megatron opened his mouth and snapped it shut. Beside him, Bulkhead gave Megatron a curious look. _“I…may have lost sight of my purpose. A bit.”_ Megatron grumbled to himself. _“Besides, I knew you would…help. I did not expect things to get so…out of hand.”_ His voice sounded petulant even to his own audio sensors.

Orion sighed deeply. _“You know,”_ he said. _“In the old stories, generally it was the dashingly handsome gladiator that ended up rescuing the little archivist.”_

_“You still find me dashingly handsome?”_

Orion shot him a look of exasperated fondness and Megatron’s spark pulsed hard.

“Up ahead,” said Arcee from point position and Megatron looked up into the light of his creation.

His first thought was that it was not so different than Unicron’s spark, a glowing chamber the size of a large metropolis, a vast echoing space strung with rivers of wires.

A sparkchamber, Megatron reminded himself. Larger than reckoning, but still a sparkchamber. He’d ripped enough of them from bots in his time to recognize one.

Below the Core, a clear circular space of floor, webbed with dark circuitry. 

“Vector Sigma,” breathed Orion. The light above them caught his features, casting stark shadows across his face, which looked, to some deep part of Megatron’s processor, like a battlemask. “Jack, bring the Key.”

The organic hurried forward, the Key clutched in its hand. Arcee made to follow, but Orion reached out and caught her arm, “Wait.”

Jack cut an absurdly small figure on the platform of Vector Sigma, but there must be something to be said for organic processors, because he found his way unerringly to the depression which matched the item in his hand.

For every key, a lock.

Jack knelt on the platform, setting the Key in its proper place, and the ground sprang to life beneath him. Veins of glowing energon welled up, spreading out across the circle, crisscrossing and doubling back.

“Holy slag,” said Bulkhead. “Now what?”

"Here," said Orion, "and here." He indicated the etchings, deep glowing troughs in the surface of the metal. "Thirteen circles."

"Thirteen Primes," muttered Ratchet from behind them.

"Perhaps some sort of ignition switch," said Orion, half to himself, his optics distant. His head lifted, optics flicking from bot to bot. Counting, Megatron realized. "Alpha Trion sometimes...never mind, it is worth an attempt. Everyone, take a circle."

It went without saying that Orion would take the central position. The others moved to obey but Megatron lingered, acutely aware of the extraneous element in the equation, the wasted spark. "There are fourteen of us," he said as Orion moved past him towards the center of the design.

Orion caught his hand with not a break in rhythm, "And the central circle is wide enough for two, my oh-so-observant brother."

"I cannot—" The words stuck in his vocalizer, ingrained pride clashing with the small and ordinary creature that he had cast aside but never exorcised fully, the one that still trembled wary before the judgment seat of heaven. His sins crowded in on him, heavy and ponderous, "I cannot be here."

"You can and you will," said Orion, his voice steely. "Was it not you who told me that Optimus Prime was your equal in every way?"

"I—" Megatron did not know how to articulate that for all his boastful nature he had never quite been able to convince himself that _he_ was Optimus's equal. But before he could quiet the whirl of his thoughts Orion turned and caught his other hand, drawing him into the circle as though to start up a dance, as though they were vorns and lightyears away from this point, lost in the faded glitter of once-great Iacon, about to violate caste and law for the sake of something Megatron could not even bring himself to name.

Orion looked up at him and smiled gently, "See? You belong here, with me."

_As I always have,_ thought Megatron, his hands tightening around Orion’s.

“You said some kind of ignition switch?” said Breakdown, optic half-shuttered against the blinding light of the Core as he shuffled into place. “Is there any way to turn it on?”

Orion frowned, optics flicking to each mechanism in turn. “I am not sure,” he said at last, sounding a bit embarrassed. “I had assumed, well I had thought that our positioning alone might be enough.”

“I thought the Key would turn on the switch,” said Arcee, looking tense.

“It stands to reason that it would do so,” said Ratchet. “But perhaps there is some crucial element that we are missing. Vector Sigma is an artifact of creation, perhaps a further trigger is needed to induce a response?”

Something in Megatron’s core went cold.

_…an artifact of creation, of life. That is how it could respond to and conquer Unicron, a creature of death and destruction._

_Will you recognize the decision when it arises, Name-Thief?_

“Well we have to do something,” said Arcee, frustrated. “We’re running out of time.”

“Our audio sensors are open if you have any _useful_ commentary, Autobot,” said Knockout, snide.

_…death and destruction_

“Perhaps application of an electrical surge?” began Shockwave.

“Yes of course!” snapped Ratchet. “Because we want to send a massive electric shock through _a piece of machinery that we don’t understand_.”

_death and destruction_

_Will you chose the correct path?_

Around them the others argued, so much white noise to Megatron’s audio sensors. Before him, Orion was frowning, orbital ridges furrowed in an expression that Megatron recognized as both worry and deep thought.

Megatron’s hands trembled and Orion looked up at him in puzzlement. He released them and took a hesitant step forward, gathering Orion into his arms, one hand resting on his chassis, and pressing the front of his helm to Orion’s own. His breath came in sharp, deep gasps he found he could not stop.

“Megatron?” said Orion, lifting a hand and stroking along the curve of the facial guards of his helm. “Are you alright?”

“I—” Megatron said and the words tasted ashen and alien in his mouth but he found that he could say nothing else. He slid his arm around Orion’s waist, tender, steadying him. “Forgive me,” he said.

The slide of sword through protoform was almost quiet beneath the cacophony of raised voices, but Megatron found it louder than any sound he had ever heard.

Orion’s optics went wide and he made a small, choked noise. His hands tightened on Megatron’s shoulder guards. Around them, the voices stopped as abruptly, as if a wire had been cut. Orion’s legs went out from beneath him and Megatron caught his weight, bearing him up, sword sliding back into its sheath.

Arcee was the first to recover. “Monster!” her scream echoed around the cavern. “I’ll kill you!”

“Stay where you are!” Megatron bellowed, all magma rage and steel conviction, and he felt the Autobots flinch back. He did not take his optics off Orion. Energon drenched their legs and pooled on the floor and Orion trembled, hands weakly rising to clutch at Megatron’s forearm guards.

“Megatron?” he whispered. His optics were starting to flicker.

“I have you,” said Megatron, searching Orion’s face desperately for some sign. And then because his tank was lurching unbearably, he said, half to himself, “Don’t be afraid.”

Orion looked at him, comprehension dawning on his face. He smiled sadly, “I’m not.”

His optics winked out and his body went limp, EM field dropping to nothing as his spark guttered and gave out. Megatron didn’t move, didn’t dare move, watching and waiting. He had to be right.

He had to be right, because if not…

The gush of energon had slowed to drips, trickling down the small pool in which they stood. Silence reigned in the vast, echoing space.

Doubt began to creep in.

Then Orion’s chassis split before his optics. Hope leapt, but it was not that familiar spark that blazed up at Megatron, but something older, no less bright, but cold and gilded where Orion’s spark had been warm and full of light.

The Matrix of Leadership.

Despair shook him.

He had been wrong.

The Matrix moved forward with a pneumatic hiss, the clasps that had held it in place unlocking, as though offering itself to his hand. 

There was a time he would have given anything for this artifact in Optimus’s, in _Orion’s_ chest and now, with the power of the Primes in his very palm, he found he despised it, this lump of cold metal. Would have traded it a thousand times over for Orion’s optics, alight and alive once more, for the warm buzz of his field and the sound of his laugh.

And now there was nothing to do but take it. Megatron had made no promise to Orion, to Optimus, to protect the dregs of this planet which he so loved, but what more could he do? Perhaps it would reject him, rebel against him, burn him body and spark for daring to touch it, but if he could wield this final weapon against the creature that had brought him to this point, Orion’s energon on his hands, then he would take it, and may the holy fire lick him hollow. Sear out the place within him that had dared to think that when he reached his final destination he would possess more than ashes.

Yet as he reached for it, metal moved beneath his hand. He heard the familiar click and whirr of transformation. The Matrix shifted, prongs lifting and turning, rotating into position as they linked together, forming a crude shaft.

No, not a shaft.

A hilt.

Megatron barely heard Ratchet’s gasp, still frozen in shock.

_Impossible._

The hilt pulsed, field a bright flame, vivid yet somehow gentle, warming, beckoning.

Megatron knew that field, would know it in the darkest pit, the brightest, blinding light, would know it if his optics were ripped from his helm.

He grasped the hilt, and pulled.

The blade of the Star Saber shone with a preternatural light, brighter and more brilliant blue than the energon that pooled around their feet. He drew it from Orion’s chest and held it aloft, a slender taper lit from the light of the Core. It should have blinded, should have scorched, and yet he could not take his optics from it.

Planet-crusher, star-destroyer, the blade of the Primes, lost to legend for eons.

Now in his hand.

Megatron could hear nothing over the rush and roar of his fuel pump and the throb of his spark.

Fingers clamped tight around his forearm, blunt digits gouging dents and weals in the metal and he jerked, head snapping away from the sword’s hypnotic light.

Only to find himself staring into the bright and blazing optics of Optimus Prime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I went for 'The Matrix is actually the hilt of the Star Saber', which was a bit of a sore point for me when they brought that particular artifact into the show. Ah well. Also, for the curious, my fiddling about with Vector Sigma has little to do with its actual portrayal in the show and everything to do with the fact that there is an [actual sacred geometric figure that just so happens to have thirteen circles in it](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metatron%27s_Cube). It's even called Metatron's Cube. I couldn't resist. xD And the little message Grimlock scrawled on the arena in Kaon is [based on actual Roman graffiti](http://www.pompeiana.org/resources/ancient/graffiti%20from%20pompeii.htm) (III.5.3). ;3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *flops over* Holy crap. I cannot believe it has been four years since I started this fic and we're finally in the home stretch. The final battle with Maximo lies ahead! Thanks for sticking with me and happy reading! :3

Megatron could not have said in that moment how it was he knew that the mechanism staring up at him, chassis and plating stained with energon, was Optimus Prime rather than Orion Pax. As before, no physical differences marked the transformation, but in the moment before Optimus snapped his battlemask shut, the expression on his face shook Megatron to the core.

Optimus adjusted his grip, pushing up, and Megatron braced himself to bear his weight without thinking, steadying Optimus as he got his feet under him. Optimus did not remove his hand from Megatron’s wrist, but he did urge the tip of the sword down and beneath his palm Megatron felt the pulse of the Star Saber, responding to Optimus’s presence.

To the presence of a Prime.

“Maximo,” said Megatron, because he could think of nothing else to say.

“I know,” said Optimus and something in the twisting, writhing knot of Megatron’s core settled to hear his voice once more. To know the mechanism whom had been the lodestone of his existence for so many eons still lived.

Even if Orion did not.

“How?” Megatron said, grip tightening on the hilt.

“Primus never loses track of his children,” said Optimus. “No matter how far they wander. Is that not correct, Maximo?”

Megatron jerked, whirling to face the chamber entrance, his cannon cycling on with a high whine.

The ancient etchings, clawed by unknown hands and worn smooth long before Megatron had ever beheld them in the darkness of the mines, did not do Maximo justice. Cloaked and armored, he filled the entryway, the proud, arching horns of his helm nearly brushing the top. Fiery optics fixed upon Optimus, and Megatron briefly experienced the disconcerting, irritating sensation of being overlooked as he had not for millennia. Around them Megatron could hear the Autobots and his Decepticons moving, grouping into defensive positions, weapons clicking and humming.

Maximo bared long, pointed fangs. “Our benevolent creator has always been too nosey for his own good.” He narrowed his optics at Optimus and dawning recognition crossed his face. “Make that nosey and meddlesome. I’d wondered what Alpha Trion had been hiding.”

 _“Give me the sword,”_ Optimus said, low and urgent across the comms, and Megatron released the hilt, allowing it to fall into Optimus’s grip even as he spared a split second to wonder if Optimus retained his commlink code from his time as Orion or if he had kept it all those eons.

Megatron had always claimed he’d forgotten to change it.

“What have you done to Alpha Trion?” said Optimus.

“Merely what should have been done ages past,” said Maximo, smiling. “But that is not the interesting question, is it, _Thirteen?_ ”

Megatron’s sensor net prickled. He’d never been educated himself, but some of the gladiators he had known had been devout and he’d been woken more than once by the sonorous rumble of prayers sung in the Primal Vernacular. The word Maximo spoke was the same one that Cyclonus had used to describe a full vesper cycle.

Thirteen prayers, for thirteen Primes.

Optimus looked steadily at Maximo, though Megatron could feel the tension in his body and field. “That name has no meaning for me anymore.”

Maximo cocked his head and looked amused. “Didn’t Trion ever teach you not to tell falsehoods?”

Optimus straightened, switching his grip on the sword, holding it low and ready at his side. “Trion taught me many things,” he said. “But one thing I learned from another, the one who honed my skills in battle. Never underestimate your enemy.”

Megatron fired. The blast caught Maximo in the chest but he shrugged it off, armor sparking and smoking. Optimus came in the wake of the bolt, slicing upwards with the Star Saber. Maximo caught the blade with his staff, deflecting the blow to the side. Optimus whirled and struck again, but Megatron could see that his form was off. He wielded the Saber like a much smaller blade. Megatron cursed and surged up next to Optimus, striking out at Maximo, who danced back out of range.

 _“Slagging fool!”_ he barked. _“Don’t swing the blasted thing like a gladius, he’ll impale you in a moment. Your saber should be sword and shield.”_

Optimus did not respond, but he did shift his approach, darting forward and slicing low, letting the weight of the blade give power to his strike. Maximo leapt to clear it and Megatron fired again, forcing Maximo to deflect the plasma bolt with his staff.

 _“I need you with me,”_ said Optimus, and it sounded far too quiet for the din of battle.

Megatron bit his glossa. _“Do you doubt me?”_

 _“Sometimes,”_ said Optimus, and Megatron felt a faint surge of amusement in his field. _“I am only mortal after all.”_

Megatron did not care to touch that conversation topic with a mechanometer-long pole. _“Shall we see what that little planet-crusher of yours can do?”_

 _“Help me drive him back,”_ said Optimus, _“and I promise to show off with it for you later.”_

Megatron bared his fangs. “You say the sweetest things.” He surged forward and caught Maximo’s staff with the side of his blade, using Maximo’s momentum to wrench him off balance and send him into Optimus’s range. Maximo staggered and and used the movement to duck within the circle of the Saber and aim a stroke at Optimus’s abdominal plating. Optimus stumbled back but recovered and threw himself upon Maximo, forsaking the blade of the Saber in favor of bringing the hilt crashing down on Maximo’s helm.

Maximo reeled and around them the mechanisms of the planetary core creaked and ground to life. The ground bucked and shifted beneath their feet.

“Clear the area!” Optimus shouted to his troops and they fell back, circling outwards, a couple peppering Maximo with shots until they moved out of range. Megatron felt a vague twitch of annoyance when he realized his Decepticons had also heeded the command. “To the surface!”

It was an automatic defense, Megatron realized, moving them away from the Core, before he was falling as the platform upon which they were standing dropped out from beneath them. He cursed and twisted, driving his sword into the metal as he began to slide into the darkness and wincing as the blade screeched in protest at the sudden application of his weight. Above him, the world suddenly inverted by Primus’s thrashing, he saw Optimus standing on the blade of the Saber--apparently having had the same idea--grappling with Maximo. They were enmeshed too closely for a clear shot, even had Megatron been able to free his cannon arm, and he snarled in frustration, scrabbling for purchase against the metal and failing to gain any traction.

Maximo shrieked with rage. Optimus had him in a headlock and was slowly crushing his helm in a move Megatron recognized, with an absurd surge of pride, as one he himself had shown Orion ages before. Maximo writhed, clawing at Optimus and drawing new streams of energon to join the sticky, drying fluids that already drenched Optimus’s body.

“Yield,” bellowed Optimus above the planet’s screams.

“You can’t stop me, Thirteen! You couldn't then and you can’t now!”

Maximo thrashed and lashed out, driving his claws straight into Optimus’s side. Optimus roared his pain and ripped, straining, stretching as metal screamed in protest…

Maximo’s head tore free in a gush of energon and Optimus flung it from him. Maximo’s body tumbled after it, down among the grinding gears and hissing mechanics. Optimus staggered as the ground bucked beneath him, tried to brace himself against the metal wall, before he too fell.

Megatron did not remember crying out, only reaching and reaching, immune to the pain of cables snapping and joints wrenching, before Optimus’s hand clasped around his own. Megatron dragged him upward with blind strength, feeling Optimus wrap him in a bloody embrace, driving his own blades into the metal beneath to anchor them. Optimus buried his face against Megatron’s throat and Megatron offlined his optics, as around them the world wrenched apart.

 

When the convulsions finally ceased, Megatron raised his head and peered into the gloom. The Core was gone, spirited away somewhere among the gears and cogs of Primus’s guts. Optimus’s ventilations were warm on Megatron’s neck, the curve of his helm smooth against Megatron’s cheek. He tightened his free arm around Optimus’s waist instinctively and felt something inside him crack open when Optimus squeezed back.

“Can you reach the Saber?” Megatron said. His voice echoed in the sudden, ringing silence.

“Yes,” said Optimus, “hold tight.” And then the strain on Megatron’s blade increased, the metal groaning as Optimus withdrew his blades and began to climb up Megatron’s body. Megatron shifted his leg, automatically providing a platform for Optimus to get a foothold and hoist himself up onto Megatron’s shoulders. Unthinking response, that acute, somatic sense of where Optimus was at all times. Optimus gripped his shoulder for a split second before lifting himself up, a tight, affectionate squeeze.

“There is a platform here,” said Optimus. “One moment--” and Megatron braced himself as Optimus lurched upwards, using his blades as climbing picks and somehow managing to avoid kicking Megatron in the face. Having experienced those tires firsthand, Megatron was not a little grateful.

“Here,” said Optimus, and Megatron looked up. Optimus was crouched on the platform, leaning down in a way that should have overextended him, but he was using the Star Saber, still sheathed in the wall, as a brace. An artifact of the Primes, a weapon like the world had never seen, and Optimus was leaning on it like it was no more than a prop, his hand extended to Megatron, optics solemn and worried.

Megatron squirmed and flipped himself over, claws scrabbling for purchase on the metal, and reached upwards. Optimus caught his hand, fingers tight around his, and Megatron withdrew his sword. Optimus heaved and Megatron clawed and struggled, up and up and then he was tumbling onto the narrow platform, collapsing against Optimus.

Optimus let out a great sigh and started to move, but Megatron gripped him, letting his greater weight keep them in place. Optimus made a quiet sound of surprise before melting, arms coming up to wrap around Megatron. Beneath his audio sensor, Megatron could hear the pulse of Optimus’s spark and the throb of his fuel pump. Noise, where before there had been such terrible silence.

“Stay,” said Megatron, hating how his voice rasped.

One of Optimus’s hands rose to stroke the curve of his helm, “We cannot remain here forever.”

“We will drink energon from the deep aquifers, the pools and clots of Primus’s blood. You get used to the dark.”

Optimus laughed, a low, quiet chuckle. “While I would like nothing more than to embark with you on a long, uninterrupted vacation, I fear our troops might tear each other to bits in our absence.”

Megatron’s tank lurched, as though Optimus’s words were a spell, sweeping aside the warm and comforting dark and bringing to bear the cold light of reality. “I--”

“And after all, even with the two of us working together, as you promised, peace will be no menial task.”

Megatron tightened his arms around Optimus. “You do remember.”

“Every moment,” said Optimus, quietly. “The good, the bad, all of it. All of you.” His hand sought Megatron’s and twined their fingers. “I would sooner rend myself in two than forget a single one.” Optimus raised their hands and pressed his mouth against the scarred knuckles. “Come with me?”

Megatron could have no more refused than he could have slain Optimus at Unicron’s behest. “I may have to lean on you,” he grumbled, reluctant to admit it, but he could feel the anticipatory tremors in his limbs. 

Optimus smiled, rueful, “Never fear, you may do so as we crawl to the surface.”

 

They did find their feet before they emerged into the soot-and-ash-choked air, so Megatron was able to maintain some dignity before Starscream. Soundwave was waiting for them, ready to accept Megatron’s weight and nudge him to a small heap of debris upon which he could sit while the Autobots swarmed around Optimus. Out of the corner of his optic, Megatron caught a glimpse of Optimus comforting Ratchet--the other mechanism’s face buried in his own hands, shoulders shaking--and looked away.

Soundwave patted Megatron on the shoulder, the awkward, default “there there” gesture he employed when he thought Megatron was being ridiculous but felt sorry enough for him to be polite. Megatron rolled his optics at him and took stock. No crucial components missing or heavily damaged, though his sword was twisted a couple of degrees in its socket and he was badly in need of a wash. Not as badly as Optimus though, who looked rather like he’d bathed in energon before rolling in an ash pile, the vivid red of his armor barely visible. Still, he looked altogether hale for a mechanism that had bled out only megacycles before, and he was among those more than capable of seeing him repaired and restored.

“Ensure that the troops behave themselves,” said Megatron. “I am going for a walk.”

 

In the closest Megatron ever came to romantic fantasies, to which he would never admit even under stringent torture, he pondered whether Optimus would seek him out. He’d found himself a perch on the roof of a mostly-intact building that looked as if it had been some sort of factory, and waited.

Megacycles passed, and Optimus did not come. The wind howled across the foundries and threw a fresh coat of dust on Megatron’s plating.

“You certainly are a hard mechanism to find,” said a voice from behind him, winded and puffing. “I thought I’d overheat just trying to make all those stairs. And all that after the drive from Iacon.”

Megatron bit back a sigh. “And here I hoped Maximo had killed you.”

“Pish,” said Alpha Trion, groaning and stretching before lowering himself gingerly to sit on a pile of debris near Megatron. “My brother wishes he knew half my tricks. Always with the dramatics that one, making fool threats and proclamations he had no hope of backing up. Even his Swarm was keyed to his spark signature. Sounds like a good idea, right? An army of loyal drones. Until you go and get yourself killed and--” He snapped his fingers. “They crumple to the ground like someone pulled the plug.”

“What do you want, Trion?”

“When you get to my age, there isn’t much to want. Some peace and quiet, time to your thoughts, the knowledge that the next generations are going to carry on alright.”

“Ah, so that is what this is about. Here to check I haven’t changed my mind and decided to take up Maximo’s work?”

“Well I should hope that you had decided to help poor Optimus wrangle the reconstruction effort, but since you bring it up, have you?”

Megatron snorted. “What would be the point? When the gods themselves rise from ashes to make Cybertron a stage for their squabbles, why should mere mortals bother?”

Alpha Trion stared at him, “What are you on about?”

Megatron scowled at him. “You should know, Trion, since you apparently nurtured one of your brothers reborn right under everyone’s olfactory sensors.”

Trion squinted at him. “You are referring to Orion, I presume? Nurturing is a matter of perspective, the little slagger was scampering around the wilds outside of Iacon long before you were even a glimmer in the Well. What does that have to do with anything?”

Megatron’s scowl deepened. “Everything, Trion! If Orion was always a Prime incarnate, then it renders our struggle a moot one. Why bother even asking me such petty questions about reconstruction when you have your golden one, already in place to take up the empty throne and restore the lineage of old?”

Alpha Trion’s expression went flat and solemn for a moment and Megatron found himself keenly aware of that overwhelming age. “You,” said Trion, as though making a great pronouncement. “Are a complete, slagging, fool.”

Megatron deflated. “Soundwave could have told you that,” he said, mutinous.

“An utter fool,” said Trion, as though he had not heard. “Do you think I cared for the Covenant these many eons past because I enjoyed poorly written and esoteric poetry?”

“What--” 

“The Covenant,” said Alpha Trion, steely, “is both chronicle and prophesy. It is a living and changing entity. Choices can alter it, the choices of Primes or the choices of nameless soldiers. But some points are fixed. The destruction of Unicron, the exile of my brother, my siblings deaths.”

“The war,” said Megatron.

Alpha Trion gave him a grave look. “No. But it does no good to wonder at whys and wherefores. The war happened in this reality, just as in others it did not happen. But in all realities, there lies a fixed point, a point of infinite, branching possibility. The moment that you, every you, all yous, encountered the spark that would be Optimus Prime.”

Megatron’s neural net prickled. “And that means what, exactly?”

Alpha Trion leaned forward on his knees, expression weary. “Many things. In some realities you are lovers, in others the bitterest of enemies. In some Orion Pax never took up the mantle of the Primes, lived and died an ordinary mechanism. But always it was by your side. I cannot read the Covenant in other worlds, the words are there, I am aware of them, but they are faint and unclear. But one passage rings out true.”

Trion looked at him, optics bright with an edge of eldritch light about them, and he spoke:

_“...catalytic reaction...for every protagonist an equal and an opposite...wake him by the movement of his own heart...brothers, souls, spirits dancing, the flow of power from pole to pole and frequency to frequency, of fundamental uncertainties in all things that tore apart and made whole…”_

The words were not in the common tongue, but rather in that same, ringing language that Maximo had used to speak the name of the mechanism that had become Optimus, yet Megatron could comprehend them all the same. They ebbed and flowed, rising into audible register before falling into nothingness, only to rise once more.

At last Alpha Trion fell silent and gave him a knowing look. “Now you see, Name-Thief. Your very existence was predicted from time immemorial.” He snorted in derision and shook his head. “Golden one indeed. Cease your dramatics and go to my once-brother. Unlike me, he is too polite to intrude upon your solitude.”

Megatron glared at him and rose. Alpha Trion gave him an unimpressed look and Megatron grunted before making his way to the edge of the rooftop. He would be slagged before he offered Trion assistance down the stairs.

“Look on the bright side,” shouted Trion after him. “You get to change your revolutionary image from ‘proletariat mechanism that worked his way up from nothing’ to ‘divinely sanctioned slagmaker’.”

 

“If you don’t hold your slagging head still,” said Trencher, mopping up the remnants of energon from Drop-Tank’s face. “I’m going to rip it off.”

“You mean you’re going to try,” said Traction from a nearby cot. Though cot was really a stretch, the construction was more of a roughly rectangular pile of debris, one of dozens scattered in the central plaza of Iacon, in the shadow of the landed _Nemesis_.

Trencher shot him a filthy look and did not reply.

Drop-Tank flinched as Trencher prodded a still-seeping crack. “It's sensitive!” he whined. “And you're not a medic!”

“Tough luck,” said Trencher, tilting Drop-Tank’s helm and squinting at it in the weak sunlight. “You're just going to have to pretend I'm one until Knockout and Ratchet get finished with the soldiers who weren't lucky enough to keep all their bits.”

“Kinky,” said Traction.

“Mute it,” said Trencher, venomous. “Or we can talk about your depravity, Autobot-fragger.”

“Gears and tierods,” said Traction. “She was worth it. I haven't gotten--”

“Mute!” Trencher barked, and Traction snickered.

“Besides,” said Traction after a moment. “It ain't gonna be much of an insult soon enough. The big-wigs are already makin' optics at each other like the war’s over.”

Drop-Tank reached up to caress Trencher’s face, gently tracing the edges of his scar. Trencher pretended to ignore it. “I think it is over,” said Drop-Tank. “I think the rest is just formalities.”

“Maybe,” said Trencher. “There's not much left to fight for. Maybe they can squabble it out amongst themselves and leave the rest of us to do the real work.”

“That reminds me,” said Drop-Tank. “I had something to ask you. I mean it's kind of a big step so I understand if you want to--”

Trencher sighed in exasperation. “I already know what the question is, dimspark. And the answer is yes.”

Drop-Tank’s optics brightened. “So you'll get an apartment with me then?”

Trencher froze. Beside them, Traction broke into peals of laughter.

“Is something wrong?” said Drop-Tank, his field flickering with worry. “Is it too fast? I just thought it might be easier what with the reconstruction and all.”

Traction’s laughter rose in volume.

“I hate you,” said Trencher, flat and undirected. “I hate you so much.”

“The grounder thought you were gonna sparkbond him,” said Traction, when he could speak again.

“Mute it before I mute it for you,” hissed Trencher.

“Oh!” said Drop-Tank, his field pulsing in embarrassment and a touch of arousal that made Trencher squirm. “I mean if that's what you want.” His optics shone. “I'd love to, I just thought you wouldn't be ready. You didn't seem like the type.”

“I--” Trencher looked away.

Gently, Drop-Tank took his hands--energon rag and all--and raised them to his face, pressing the backs of Trencher’s knuckles against his cheek. “The answer is yes,” he said.

“Sickening,” said Traction, no malice in his voice.

“Shut up,” said Trencher. He nodded towards the open hatch of the _Nemesis_ , where Optimus was descending the plank. At the base waited Megatron, his stiff posture and severe expression belying the nervous and eager glint in his optic.

After considering for a moment whether such an action might be worth potential dismemberment, Trencher cupped his hands around his face and let out a loud whoop. “Go get ‘im, Orion!”

Megatron shot him a scandalized look over one of his pauldrons. Optimus let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh before beckoning Megatron to follow him. Megatron hesitated only a moment before falling into step beside Optimus, heading away from the ship and Iacon.

“Where are they going?” said Traction.

Trencher rested his hand on Drop-Tank’s helm. “Just formalities,” he said.

 

Optimus did not speak as they headed for the outskirts of Iacon. The rising sun cut through the haze of dust that hung like a pall over the planet’s surface, casting pale shadows across the broken buildings.

When the wreckage began to thin, urban sprawl opening up into empty plains, remnants of an older and wilder time, Megatron could bear the silence no longer. “Where are we going?”

Optimus looked at him but did not slow his easy, loping pace, “Somewhere private.”

Trion’s protege indeed. Megatron sighed and followed.

They topped a shallow rise and Optimus gestured to a copse of standing stones ahead of them. “I never quite grew used to Iacon and would return here to escape the noise and bustle of the city. It is cold during the nights, but it was always worth the quiet.”

“So Trion spoke the truth.”

Optimus glanced at him, bemused. “I will always be grateful to Alpha Trion for taking a feral, unmannered little mechanism and teaching him to be a civilized creature. Even if I never totally lost the taste for live glitchmice.”

Megatron shot him an alarmed look. Optimus’s expression was solemn, but then the corner of his mouth twitched. Megatron scowled at him. “Clearly he never succeeded in teaching you to tell a joke.”

“Who said it was a joke?” said Optimus, shouldering his way among the rocks. “Take care, it is a bit tight.”

Megatron crowded in beside Optimus and seated himself. Inside, he could see how the jagged metal arched up over their heads, forming a crude shelter where a smaller mechanism might take refuge from the rain. Optimus leaned back against one of the standing stones and let out a quiet sigh. When he did not move for several moments, Megatron copied him, resting his weight against the cold metal. This close, the harmonics of Optimus’s energy field hummed against his own, a slow, steady thrum, an echo of that massive spark that even now rotated beneath their feet. A rhythm Megatron recalled from the darkness of the mines, a primal heartbeat that could only be heard when the noise and bustle of the cycle had ended, and the creature that would become Megatronus lay awake, processor overflowing with thought.

“Trion was right,” said Megatron, with a sigh of disgust. “I was a fool. A fool to let my emotions get the best of me. A fool not to see.”

Without onlining his optics, Optimus reached over and rested his palm on Megatron's knuckles. “You were burdened as much as I, in your own way. The ordinary path was never ours to walk.”

Megatron turned his hand palm up and folded his fingers around Optimus's. “I was so certain when we met, certain it was a sign. But I never saw the sign for what it was, only what I wanted to see. Perhaps it was never a sign at all.”

Optimus squeezed his hand gently. “Did I ever tell you,” he said after a long time “that when I first heard you speaking on the Grid, long before I ever saw your face, that offcycle, I had a dream about you?”

Megatron's spinal struts tingled. “Is that so?” he said.

Optimus hummed in assent. “Many times over the eons I wondered if the dream was a sign. Even after receiving the Matrix I never felt the touch of prophecy, that was Trion’s domain, or Vector Prime's. And yet I carried that dream with me, kept it secret, as a light in dark places, when I thought I should never see you again, when I thought that the rift between us was insurmountable.”

“What was the dream?”

Optimus's optics lit, soft and glowing in the twilight. “It was of the two of us, sitting as we are now, in this very place that I had come a thousand times. In the dream I took your hand and asked you to be my Lord Protector.”

Megatron swallowed hard, “What did I say?”

Optimus smiled, the edges of his optics crinkling, “Let us find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, folks! Someday I might write a porny epilogue, or a few little ficlets to fill in some bits, but the crux of the main story is finished. Many thanks to those who've stuck with me through all the ups and downs, Reya for betaing portions and just convincing me to start posting in the first place, elvie and grimcognito and all the others who've kept pushing me along. Much love to you all, and to everyone's who's left comments and kudos. <3
> 
> Also just a few little notes for those who care about such things. You probably noticed I made some references to the published Covenant of Primus, including quoting the passage from it which predicts Megatron's birth. An oft-repeated complaint I've heard is that Optimus's prior divinity somehow renders his character less legitimate than Megatron's, but people often seem to skip over the fact that Megatron's rise was _also_ predicted. It folded nicely into the direction of the story, particularly the title, ("Two Powers in Heaven" is a reference to Metatron the archangel, said to stand by the throne of the Creator) so I included it.


End file.
